Egyptian Expat in Cairo -

Nanny-less diaries

I didn’t come up with this one! Though I wish I did..

I’ve been nanny-less for almost ¾ of my nine years of mommy-hood. And the short bouts in which I had house-help, the price tag for the service came quite high: my money, my jewelry, and most of all, my sanity.

Somehow I got by.

As a matter of fact, I still am getting by, with three kids between 9 and 3 and a house in child-unfriendly New York. A little bit of toughening up and loads of spillover whining sessions, I somehow get by. But it’s my friend Yasmin Shafei, who so creatively and so aptly coined the term as she navigates Cairo with two little ones and no house-help.

Mind you, YS is no spoilt brat. She also braved New York City with kids and came out of it with fond memories. She breezed through the big fat apple with no help, and she survived. She even liked it and didn’t bother to complain; which admittedly, I did lots of.

What is it in Cairo that makes the job ooooh soooo hard?

I’m finally living here in my parents’ house… A dream I thought was banished to the lowest drawers of my consciousness since marriage to the UN uprooted me from my home.

I have a cook, a cleaner, a couple of “pass-par-tout-s”, and my sister’s driver at my disposal.. I even got lucky with a sitter I’ve known for a couple of years and she works full time with my kids. Yet I’m drained!

My friend Noha asked me this morning: you actually live alone with 3 kids in New York?

By alone she means without house-help. That statement in itself tells me a lot about family structure for young families living in Cairo where a father ultimately comes fourth after mami, driver, and house-help. If you add grandparents and aunts to the mix, the poor man is left to dwindle his fingers over shisha every night with his friends .
That’s an exaggeration, but in many cases it is sadly an accurate description of Cairene family life.

Six months ago, I would have frowned my brows and given her – what I would hope would look like- an arrogant condescending emoticon –like look. I would have sneered a little and so haughtily explained that I had it all under control and I was no spoilt daddy’s girl.

The only truth that remains today from that perspective is that I never was a daddy’s girl. Other than that, I have a new found admiration for all those hands-on new mommys who stretch themselves so thin, in a city of 88 million humans, double that number in stray animals and less than a fifth of it in resources.

A typical day for a new-age mom in Cairo starts somewhere between 5:30 and 6:30 AM. For a night bloomer like me, this is simply inhumane. School days for multi-child families ends anywhere between 1 and 4 pm. And that’s when the traffic torture begins.

My kids all finish at 1 PM sharp.. Ideal right??? Too bad I have to do two simultaneous pick-ups from 2 different locations. End result??? Lots of sprinting, panting, apologizing and angry unwelcoming kiddie faces envying each-other depending on who got picked up first!

Sundays the boys have swim class, Tamara has Ballet, all 3 have Arabic and that’s just the weekly kickoff day.

I sat in Grecco café this morning with a dozen moms after drop-off and I listened carefully and silently acknowledged: Living Nanny-less in Cairo is an unparalleled adventure. As much as I applaud Yasmin’s courage and enthusiasm, I think that 6 weeks from now, as I shed all my social luxuries and support systems away and board that plane back to lonely New York, I will pray real hard for her to find help and keep it. For she needs that here in Cairo more than I ever will in NY or Europe or wherever the UN decides to dump us in the future.

Egyptian Expat in Cairo

Here is a shocker…
I looked up the definition of Expatriation and google comes back with this: “ex•pa•tri•ate ( k-sp tr - t ). v. ex•pa•tri•at•ed, ex•pa•tri•at•ing, ex•pa•tri•ates. v.tr. 1. To send into exile. See Synonyms at banish.”

OUCH… I never felt that marriage to the UN would lead to exile.. sounds really harsh!
I didn’t like this definition so I ventured to look for my own.

But my life, in its mischievous ways, decided to hand me with a rare opportunity to find the answer myself.

Early in May, I got the news that my dad was terminally ill.. Funny how the word terminal immediately puts a ticking clock over a person’s head. Their life stops the day you hear the news, and the mourning process takes off long before it’s due.. But that’s a side issue that deserves a blog post on its own.

Three months later, and after an arduous summer, a decision was finally taken… The kids and I would stay in Cairo till December to spend as much time with my dad as possible and pitch in where needed.

September 7th, I took the kids to their respective schools. The day proved chaotic, stressful, crowded and tremendously scary for all three kids and myself.
Later that night, I updated my status on FB with some cynicism. I criticized the school security measures, the lack of coordination between nurseries and school schedules, traffic, crowds, heat, and the arrogance of Egypt’s new elite with their fancy bags and signature couture.

September 14th, I wrote on FB:

“Aside from politics.. what's up with Cairo and Ice watches??? two weeks in the great capital and my son already insists he must have one!!! and an X Box and a motor scooter and a golf cart and and and and .....”

This proved a popular post with many agreeing but some didn’t like my orientalist attitude.. Well they didn’t quite say it outright, but it was there in every word of defense they wrote.

By September 20th, my dreams of finally settling back home, albeit for a short while, started to dissipate… I wrote on FB:

“Week 3 in Cairo. Hot,hot, school pick up is a nightmare, surprisingly lonely, wish I could organize a little so I can do more!”

Lonely??? Who would have thought I would ever feel lonely in the Cairo of my childhood friends, cousins, cousins of cousins, colleagues and the hundreds of people I consider close friends???

October 12th, I wrote:

“Week 6 in Cairo:I reside with my family, which by default = I have access to a cook, a driver, a house cleaner, an ironer etc... YET! i'm way more drained than when I played solo in Westchester!!!!!!!”

Lonely.. drained.. chaotic are usually all symptomatic of one thing: a new phase of expatriation; a dismantling of a home and a discovery of yet… a new one. What was going on? Why was I.. oops, why am I still living as an expat in my own homeland?

And the real definition of expatriation suddenly became crystal clear.
Expatriation for roamers like me.. is not the physical act of leaving home, or worse being expelled from it.

Expatriation is a state of mind that imprints itself in a roamer’s psyche and becomes a critical part of our consciousness. We are expatriates no matter where we are. Roaming in a constant state of rootlessness and that’s what marriage to the UN means!

When Election Day meant Hope for Egypt .... Oh well!!!! At least we had One day to Cherish

It had rained the day before. I know, in Westchester, when rain and morning-after are logged together in the same sentence, humming birds, green trees and the fresh smell of grass come to mind.

But this is Cairo, there are never enough trees for any birds to nest on, the closest we have to grass patches are water drenched green swamps in what was initially designed to be green public squares. Even in lush Maadi, the school I was to go cast my vote in was located in a muddy, beat-down street a few blocks away from the lavish villas and old-Maadi houses this neighborhood is so famous for.

I woke up way too early and way too excited. Afterall, I was going to get my thumb inked for the first time in my life!

Days before, we sat in big groups over Greco coffee and Abul Sid shisha (water pipe) going over appropriate attire to detract attention, exit strategies in case of violence, proper behavior to dodge Islamist groups intimidation and where we would all meet after we vote to celebrate this historical moment in our lives.

On the morning of… my cousin Laila (yes, we tend to all carry the same first name in my family), my friend Hedy, my sis and her friend (who were voting next door) stood dutifully in long winding lines. We were early and we were met with many familiar faces. Maadi is big by most people’s standards, but this is Egypt, 88 million citizens and somehow you always end up bumping in all the people you know. Everywhere you go, you’re in familiar territory.

By mid-morning, the wait gets boring, apparently, our judge is still sleeping and some volunteers decided not to go for the job of observers. There was a call for new volunteers from the lines, I wanted to help but it was either spend a whole 12 hour days in that voting room observing, reporting on violations, and helping clueless voters, or be frowned upon for not wanting to help build our country!!!!

Where did that attitude come from? Over-zealous, first time voters blinded by the prospect of writing their own national history I guess. I tried to explain that we all wanted to help, but we had small children and short notices don’t help. Again, more frowning and a few nasty remarks about my lack of patriotism.

Meanwhile on the other side of the muddy road, Islamist parties had organized themselves and with such positive energy have stationed their laptops and volunteers to guide the, by now super tired, voters to their designated voting rooms.

I did my part, I took pictures, I talked sense, I officially complained and I reported violation.. After all, the rules were clear: parties were not allowed to campaign on the day of! But the lack of internal organization and the long wait were ripe environment for any takers. No one was more readily organized than the Islamists and sure enough, the street was flooded with yellow banners, untamed beards and scary black Niqabs.
When the doors finally opened, the lines went in fast. The process was relatively painless, except when a young woman clad in a huge black Niqab cut the lines, and pushed her way in to vote!

Hedy, Laila and I tried to block her path. We argued that for such a supposedly pious woman she should respect her fellow citizens and wait for her turn. She begged to be let in:
- They called my number, she argued
- No they didn’t, Hedy firmly replied. You and I carry the same number and it hasn’t been called yet.
- But I’m carrying a sleeping child, she said
- Well, so are a dozen other women whose turn you’re so impolitely ignoring
- OK, then I’ll go home
- Great… Who needs another Islamist vote? I told her. With this outfit, no way you’re voting liberal I assume!
- If you’re really going home, get out of the line and walk back, Laila told her
- But I can’t, can’t you see my long black dress will be muddied?
- Really now< I was quite angry by then… we have to push aside and muddy ourselves for your highness simply because you chose to come vote in a dragging black robe on a morning like this. Your decision to cover yourself from the whole word doesn’t make you a better or cleaner person, you know!
In the end she won… she managed to push her way in, moan and beg the army soldiers at the gates, vote before the rest of us and so proudly flaunt her black gloved hand at us. We couldn’t tell whether she was inked or not.
Later that day we heard reports from other stations that Monaqabbas performed multiple votes for their party and no one dared question their identity under the black Niqab!

A woman behind me murmured to her friends: so they lie, cheat, trample and seduce.. That’s what the Islamist party women do to win.

And win they did, a sweeping victory for a party that most of the Maadi population can’t identify with. How?

Months later, sipping coffee in Panera and dreaming of a steamy cappuccino with my Maadi friends back in Greco, I still wonder!

How did they win our district over? How many Monaqqaba voters did I see that morning? Including the pushy lying one with the sleeping baby, probably two or three. How could the outrageous Salafi Al Nour Party take my Maadi by storm on that Monday morning on Election Day? I can’t imagine the mostly secular crowd, in jeans, sweaters and fancy chignons stood so patiently for hours to vote Al Nour or even the F&J Party.

God help us in the next few weeks when, along with their Islamic peers the F&J Party, Al Nour translate their surreal ideologies into a constitution that will govern our lives and our children’s lives for generations to come.

Mom's First Day of School

7.45 pm

I’m fifteen minutes late for my first school appearance. Yes, three years into the post and I still have to go through that first-day-of-school trauma AGAIN!

I drive up on Central Avenue. I tune in to 100.3 hoping for a feel good song. Sure enough, one of my favorites is playing and I stretch my lungs out to sing my anxiety out of my system. Yes, I sing loud!

As I enter the meeting room, I tell myself: it won’t be so bad. It’s just another PA meeting. I’m a pro by now!, I’ve gone from shy shadow member, to elected PA president to outspoken member in three years and I loved every moment of it. But that’s in the boys’ small, family-style French School, where almost all 20+ families are expats, roamers like me.

This all American community school is a totally different story!

I step inside the meeting room and I see a judging panel: 6 or 7 moms and one dad facing the rest of us moms and also one dad who constitute the school parents body.
Everyone looks at me and I tell myself it’s only because I’m late!

But why are they seated as panelists? I pull out a comforting mental image of our French school PA meetings in Panera Bread coffeehouse where no one can tell who is a member, a treasurer, a president or just there for the coffee. We just all gather around the long wooden country table and do our meetings over crunchy bagels and hot coffee, while out toddlers enjoy turning our working papers into their coloring sheets.

I grab a chair in the last row of seats and I stare at the panel speaking about past and future events and I realize from the number of jokes floating around the room that:
1- I’m the only non-American in the room.
2- I’m the only new comer.
3- I’m probably only the only person who has no idea what a parish breakfast means!

I’m hyper ventilating. I try to find ways to calm my nerves down. But then I realize I’m simply hot because I forgot to take my heavy coat off! I do so as quietly as possible. I see one of the panelists inquiring about me and I wonder; how on earth will I introduce myself? What will I say? “Hey, I’m Laila. I’m the only Egyptian Muslim here, and I have two boys who go to the French school next door and one daughter who attends this wonderful American catholic school. But hey, I have no identity crisis… none what so ever.. I’ve only been a roamer for 13 years. I’m cool….all cool!!!”

I get my moment and I do introduce myself. It actually happens fast and without any bumps. Except, I can’t find my English words, and I have this weird Franco Egyptian accent that no one can identify. Oh!!!! I suddenly realize: I speak Franco English at the American school while my French friends from the French school think my French is tainted with English. I can’t think in Arabic any longer. Who the heck am I? Why can’t I master any language? Why am I constantly at a loss of words and proper sentence structure?

I’m grateful they don’t comment much about my obvious struggle with the vernacular. Some brush it off to normal anxiety for being a first time school mom (at this particular school) and they all welcome me aboard!

I come back home and I tell my husband all about it. I’m so excited I finally found a way into my daughter’s new school. Though it’s doubtful I will ever integrate as successfully as I did in an all-roamers school. But in a couple of years, when all those thoughts will be once again neatly tucked inside a memory box ready to be shipped to our next destination , I will sit in my airplane chair, look down on New York and feel good about it all…

Up until it’s time to brace myself one more time for my first PA meeting, in another roamer school, in another roamer post with another group of intimidating parents who seem to have already formed an invincible tight-knit community to which I can’t possibly belong!

SandTurtle -- Expats' right to vote

The speed at which Sandmonkey makes his leaps intimidates me… Not because he’s so young and politically active. But because, like many post-revo activists.. he’s too quick to create blueprints and the leader-hungry Egyptians are fast to follow in total devotion. That’s what I call counter-revolutionary! When we start following a herd mentality and stop thinking for ourselves.

Maybe I should branch out of my blog and give my political doppelganger the name Sandturtle.. for I, for one, sure take my time to digest what is going on the Egyptian political landscape. And I like to stop and graze at every little minute detail till I fully appreciate it.. No wonder I’m miles behind on his tracks!

So we didn’t vote in the referendum.. when I did the math (can’t even recall how I did it), I figured my NO vote wouldn’t have tilted the balance in my favor even if it was loaded with 8 million expatriate NOs. Mainly because we have already made a few wrong leaps: 1- all expats would have voted.. 2- they would have unanimously voted NO.. 3-their new found Egyptomania is really founded on what’s best for Egypt not for their personal interests as dual nationals and Egypt’s foreign policy.
But that’s a different issue… for a future blog post!

We were simply defeated in the first round, but who’s counting? we went down face first but we’re up again , before the guy with the whistle counted to ten and raised the MB’s hand in victory. I know I’m up again and I’m more focused and steady on my ground.

Too bad I’m standing on the wrong side of the ocean.. and unless I take the plunge and fly to Cairo every time the Military Council holds an election, I’m afraid I have no chance of getting even the tip of my toes wet..

But I don’t just want to wiggle my toes in the wet political sands. I don’t want to sit and gaze at the shifting tides of Egypt.. I want to get soaked in its politics and I want to feel the waves of campaigns, grassroots movements, political education efforts and galvanizing forces leading to our first ever presidential elections!
I want to be part of it without having to drop 3 kids and fly 12 hours to go cast a vote. I want to put my long years of communication work to spread voter awareness and mobilize expat voices here in New York.

How hard can it be?..

Last I checked, we were over 300 thousand Egyptians registered in the Egyptian Consulate here.. I have to update the numbers.. And if we started here.. it will go viral.. do I dare ask how many we are across the US?

Just imagine,,, running an elections-campaign for the first Egyptian president.. But here in New York, for New York based voters. And another for Chicago voters.. How about LA voters, any takers? And we won’t have to either be Red or Blue? We’ll have a real democracy with real choices and too many hues to choose from.

Obama said it.. he wants American youth to learn from our example. Wouldn’t be fun to teach American youth how to build a truly functional democracy on their own turf?
Now that’s an idea… if only we expats could vote…

Revolutionary Egyptian In New York

I was really hesitant to blog about politics… First, I didn’t want to get arrested at the airport and be subjected to body search and electrocution. But really, what stopped me is FEAR of RIDICULE. Simple and clear!

I thought and still think we’re all political amateurs; brought together to share a game but we barely know its rules. We know we broke its old rules. We know those didn’t work well for us and the game was neither just, nor fun in the end. We know the old rules discouraged many and left us all quite ignorant and apathetic. And we know we have just created a chance to make up our own rules. The only problem is…. We’re too many, and we’re too loud and we’re still too ignorant. But very few concede!

The thing is.. I need to be 10 years younger to really break into this virtual world and mould it to my will. But I have the leverage of having a foot in each generation.

I’m a revolutionary girl at heart and when people say, it’s the youth revolution, I nod my head in agreement. In my mind, I’m included!

But I’m also a mother.. This alone, empowers me and gives me the credibility no teen-ager can amass. You see… just by virtue of being a mom, I have to think selflessly. I want the best for my kids. I want freedom, justice, a good living standard, education.. most of all, I want hope!

But I’m also young enough, to want all that for ME!.. I want to breathe Freedom, to speak Honesty, to work Justice. And I want to reap the ROI in my lifetime…
I leave the big problems of democracy and autocracy and technocracy and all this revolution lingo that I can barely understand, to the experts and I tackle the issues that concern me directly.. namely EXPATS' RIGHT TO VOTE.

Two months into the revolution, I think it’s time to write about the things that will change the course of my life..

When I went back to Cairo to protest, I went looking for my voice.. Luckily I found it in Tahrir Square… I wasn’t sure I had much to say but I chanted and screamed anyway. I was happy with my new-found power.

Today, I’m not searching for a voice any longer, I’m searching for something to say. I got my voice back.. the question is: what do I do with it?

My options are clear:
- I can spend hours furiously debating with my virtual friends on FB and Twitter and Skype.. But as the March 19th referendum has shown: my virtual community accounts for less than a third of the Egyptian population. Besides, they’re already sold to my ideologies and judging by the fact that I still can’t vote from afar… we don’t have much leverage when it comes to influencing public opinion.

- I can join a party and start rallying for support. I don’t mind especially that one specific party has already lured me in with its liberal ideology and very charismatic leaders. But will that be an effective utilization of my skills and resources? Especially that I don’t live in Egypt?

- I can launch a campaign to allow expats to vote. Now that’s a start…

If I could gather a group of friends, living in and around New York City..

If I could brainstorm with them on messages we want to send out, what would we say?

- We are Egyptian
- We have a voice
- We want to vote because.. We can… and We should
- It’s not just our right… it’s our responsibility.. it’s the price we pay for democracy!

Egyptian Women living abroad. The Revolution and Tahrir Square

We Are Egypt Too!

Experiencing the Tahrir Square uprising from Afar – the Expat turmoil

Chronicles of a Virtual Egyptian Revolution

Monday morning in Westchester New York, my friend calls me from Cairo and tells me: Hey, we’re having another demonstration tomorrow. Why: I ask him. People are high on the Tunisian revolution and they want to ride the wave. Cool, I say. Yes, he answers, looks like it will be big this time.. They always are! I tell him.

Monday evening my sister tells me: we have the day off tomorrow. Why? I ask her. It’s the Police forces day. I can’t help but laugh. Is this a joke? I ask her. Of all the forces we have and the police celebrate their..what? corruption? Terrorizing techniques? Bullying?. No, she says, but I think they’re also watching the demos closely tomorrow, I think it will be big this time. Yes of course, haven’t we seen it all? I remind her.

Apparently NOT.

Tuesday 25 January 2011

My sister calls and says she heard it was a huge demonstration. Did he respond? I ask her. No, she says.. Oh well! So how was your day off?

Meanwhile in Tahrir, my cousin was tear-gassed and interrogated and crowds were dispersed. Egyptians didn’t know, local media showing turmoil unfolding elsewhere in Lebanon and Tunisia.

Wednesday - Thursday 26, 27 January 2011

My sister says they won’t leave the square. What are they asking for? I ask her. They want him out. I smile. They want freedom. My smile widens. They want the whole system to come undone. Now I was laughing.. Wishful thinking, I say.

Later on Thursday she calls and says she passed by the square earlier and it was empty. She also saw police forces marching towards it. Best traffic today, she says.

The First Friday, “Friday of a Million Man March”

4:00 am New York time, I wake up, fiddle with my remote control to find CNN and BBC. I log on and connect to Al Arabiya and Al Jazeera. I upload the guardian’s minute by minute blog updates and its Arabic equivalent from Al Shorouq. I look for my sister on Skype and she pops up and says: ten more minutes.

I connect to Facebook and wait… a wait that would soon become a daily ritual for the two weeks that followed.

From New York to Tahrir Square

Two weeks later and on a flight to Cairo, I put my pen down and close my diary. I was too scared to bring in any cameras or laptops after the horrors some journalists friends have seen. The airport was empty but for our small group which boarded in Munich.

Hours earlier I was still glued to all my visual gadgets collecting news, aggregating facts and posting them on my Facebook wall. I have developed a growing following; mostly expats who have come to rely on my updates and the accuracy of their content. For days, I lived only on my Wall. My kids had learnt to avoid me. Living on boiled Pasta and endless hours on Wii, they had accepted the standstill that had gripped my home since that first Friday.

“I’m proud of you,” my son said to me one morning. “I know you’re keeping people informed about what is happening in Cairo and I know this is a very important job.”

It was all coincidental. Rumors were circulating faster than air. Egypt was off the virtual map and many had to rely on slivers of information passed on. I was lucky.. I had contact with two people who still had access to the Internet. I started posting updates through their eyes. It wasn’t enough, their own knowledge was quite limited to disillusioned local television and I started devouring international media coverage, checking sources and only posting what I found credible as news.

I only realized the impact of my endeavor when I disappeared for two hours, and came back to a number of frantic queries. Where are you? What happened? Are you ok? Were the messages pasted on my Facebook wall from many expats with whom a strange and very solid bond was forged.

By the time Egypt came back online, we were quite informed, naturally emotionally involved and very tired. It came as a shock when friends back home started to virtually shoot at us. We were losers either way. Those of us who supported the revolution were deemed irresponsible and careless. Those who were skeptical were accused of being no patriots. Since my self- imposed mission was to deliver updates, I suffered the least. But it got me furious and curious. I wondered how true my virtual experience was to what was unfolding on the ground.

Photo by Akram Reda.


The trip was hatched, planned and booked in less than two hours. While transiting in Munich, my worry over three small toddlers back in New York was overshadowing any revolutionary excitement I might have developed in recent days. But when I landed in the Square, I was finally home and all my worries simply faded away.

Arriving on that last Thursday In Mubarak’s reign I went straight to the Square. I wanted to see for myself. I wanted to lend my voice to those of the million protestors camping there. It didn’t matter if I were a late bloomer or if believed from the start. In the Square no one questioned your motives. Everyone appreciated your presence.

We entered from the Falaki entrance (named after a famous building cornering that street), and after six or seven personal and ID checks, I was allowed inside the Square. I was prepared for the waves of humans that hit me. After all, the scene was already imprinted on my mind from the various media I had been watching. But the energy that engulfed me when I heard the first chants was surreal. I let myself go with the flow; chanting at times, raising my hands in solidarity, swaying to the rhythms of music on a stage nearby and laughing at the occasional printed jokes hanging on tent walls. At that moment I knew. I was right to come back. My kids would be fine for four days, but my life would be forever changed after.

On the first night in Tahrir Square, Mubarak made his third speech insisting he would remain in power. I was sure the crowds would turn violent and judging by my own anger, I couldn’t blame them. Once again, I was wrong! I went home and watched the scene I had left moments earlier just as crowds insisted in one single voice: He leaves. We won’t!


That first night at the square I found my voice. The next morning, I made sure it was heard.

The last Friday.. The Friday of Departure

Right after Friday prayers we headed to the Square and this time, I decided to leave the chanting crowds and go meet the dwellers of the campsite. I sat next to a Poet from Damietta. He was bare foot and quite modest in his manners, but his thoughts were a goldmine.



He showed me his red leather book where he keeps his hopeful rhymes. “This is my Agenda,” he asserted. “This is what they call foreign plots and conspiracy plans.”
His words were so poignant, his politics so clear that he put my humble political savviness to shame. I listened.



A fellow musician took his words and started chanting, we all followed in chorus.
Every hour a young man with a cell phone to his ear would come and announce updates from other manifestations elsewhere.

“They arrived to the presidential palace in peace,” was his last announcement. “And the army is distributing water and food.”

Cries of relief and cheers reverberated through the plastic covers of our shabby tent. So the army was still on board. Rumors of army attacks were finally put to rest. Only then did I realize how worried I was all morning!

As slogans were crafted, and jokes were circulated, I could see the mix of hopelessness and resilience playing on every face. He won’t bulge, that part was clear. I was more hopeless than many and I felt that nothing short of a miracle was needed to break this stalemate!

Once more, I was proven wrong!

Hours later, Mubarak stepped down. The Square came alive with a new, earth shaking strength, and fireworks (though normally banned) cracked on top of our heads.

I wasn’t chanting anymore. I was screaming at the top of my lungs: “Raise your head up high… you’re Egyptian!”


We did it. I did it. I made it to the Square, I added to the numbers. I helped keep it peaceful and civilized and I connected with at least 2 million Egyptians on that Square in a way I would have never dreamed possible.

Watching from afar you can only watch and react to the scenes unfolding before you. You worry and you fear. You hear gun shots echoing too close while talking on the phone with Egypt. You follow the progress of thousands of prisoners as they close in on your neighborhood and your family home. You wake up in the middle of the night to keep the civilian vigilante, who happens to be your young nephew, company as he protects your family from armed thugs and criminals. You see tanks piling up around the Square but you can’t see your friends and relatives who are camped inside.

But when you step inside the Square, you don’t hear or see any of that. You only see a sea of Egyptians from all walks of life, gathered for the simplest and most noble human right: freedom.

Two weeks watching from afar in terror and complete paralysis. Only in Tahrir Square did I finally feel safe and free.