Chronicles of A Revolutionary Egyptian Expatriate (2)

I'm sitting here in Boston on my sofa looking at the ballot papers I'll mail tomorrow to the Egyptian embassy in DC in order to cast my vote for the parliamentary elections. I have a subtle but persistent headache that's been there since I woke up and there're dry tears on my face. There's a heaviness in my chest that I can't shake off. Why? I'm not even sure why.

A wave of sadness hit me last night about hearing about the arrest and beating of Mona El Tahawy by the police on Mohamed Mahmoud street. She'd just arrived in Egypt the day before in order to be in Tahrir- just like I wish I could. It made me imagine being in her place. It made me think of how long we'd live under such a regime of terror and control. I was thinking of how even those of us who were never arrested, tortured, or even harassed by the police have always felt scared of that happening at some point.  They succeeded in instilling terror in people's heart from afar. It also made me think how my dad would probably never let me go to Tahrir in such circumstances if I were in Egypt, because he used to be a police officer and he knows quite well what they do. I felt more suffocated. Are we all going to be afraid forever? Those heros in Tahrir, men and women, have broken that barrier and I haven't yet.

I don't have much doubt that we'll eventually prevail- although I have my worries sometimes. At least I know that with such a stubborn and reckless generation, we'll never give up the fight. What I'm upset about is the insane amount of blood that was shed over the last week. I know it happened, but I'm hung up on that. Why did so many people have to die or lose an eye just became some arrogant dictators are clinging on to power so fiercely? How is it even possible that a government keeps killing and torturing its own people for a whole week without a sound from other countries, Arab or Western? Why do I have to check Twitter first thing in the morning to know if any of my friends is hurt? Why did the street where I went to college for four years turn into a war zone that I can't even recognize in photos anymore? Is it because some 80-year-old men think they'll never die? Being ruled by a bunch of killers who have blood on their hands is an entirely different game as opposed to being ruled by mere thieves.

Then I keep drawing on the amazing strength that my friends in Tahrir have and I remind myself they stand there after all the fighting with a lot of hope and a lot of encouragement. It makes me realize I'm crying because I want to be there in Tahrir, where the heart of Egypt now resides and beats. I don't just want to support Tahrir, I want to be inside it. I want to be with my friends whom I'm scared to death for. I want to touch the place, see every detail, and look those wonderful people in the eye. I am Tahrir-sick. And I listen to Moustafa Said singing: "يامصر هانت وبانت كلها كام يوم..." I'll be there soon, Egypt.