An Experience of Tahrir

As I walk up to the first line of barricades I am directed to the women’s line as I ready my passport. At this civilian checkpoint a fashionable young hijabi woman looks over my passport while a woman wearing niqab gives me a full pat down, apologizing all the while. The space between barricades is emptied of cars and filled with people traveling in and out of the square. I go through two or three more of these checkpoints until breaking out of the building-lined streets into the wide open interior of the appropriately named Liberation Square.

Once inside I am immediately met with the loud sound of some nationalist song playing from the line of speakers strung up along the lampposts that follow the southeast edge of the square. There is movement everywhere. It is difficult to keep track of anyone. There are  huge banners with popular slogans on them or photos of those recently killed by police lining the buildings and fences that mark the borders of this newly independent space called Tahrir. There are Egyptian flags all around–held above the large metro vent waving in its wind, placed atop makeshift tents, painted on faces of young and old. The burned out National Democratic Party building looms in the near background acting as a reminder of the grave reason why so many people are gathered here.

I walk further into the square passing by small clusters of people either gathering to take photos of an interesting sign, joining in on a chant, or weighing in on a heated debate. Young men energetically walk by in pairs or small groups, many sporting bandages probably a couple days too old on their heads to show off their bravery in rock battles. There are all types of people around from wealthy, western-dressed, middle-aged women to poor, old, bearded men. People are holding their own hand written signs communicating many different messages but the word ‘freedom’ appears on the vast majority. Along the curbs, men in suits sit reading the newspaper or catching up on family news.

A small march of angry Muslim women passes by chanting, ‘Our voices are quiet no longer,’ followed by the most popular chant of the movement, ‘The people demand the removal of the regime.’ After about ten minutes of walking along I arrive at the northern-most barricade which is made not by the people but instead by the army with a line of six or seven tanks. Older and poorer men, those with less to lose, create an immovable barrier around each tank, pledging to be crushed by the tanks before they would be able to move on the people of the square. The call to prayer sounds and men all around start washing up with the dirt on the ground before lining up for prayer.

I head back towards the main circle and then towards 6th October Bridge. The path is lined by vendors selling cigarettes or smoked sweet potatoes. Another small march passes by, this time made up of school children chanting back to the call of a five-year-old girl held up on the shoulders of her father. On my way towards the mosque I pass by a man dressed as a referee who is blowing a whistle and pulling a red card on Mubarak. Everyone around him is laughing.

The mosque stands between two barricades made up of burned out cars and a police bus. An artist is updating a daily comic he draws on the charred bus that serves as his chalkboard. I sit down for a moment and a woman wearing niqab comes by to offer me a date before continuing on, offering dates to everyone along her way. A newspaper on the ground in front of me with a picture of Mubarak on it gets stomped on by everyone who notices it. As the sun starts to go down, I decide to head home so as not to be hassled by the police or army for being out after curfew. On the walk home I wonder how long a place like Tahrir can last.

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