Who would have thought that 12 hours could change one’s life dramatically? I didn’t, until it happened to me. When I was 13 years old, 12 hours out of my whole life made me realize that the dream of a free democratic Egypt was coming to an end. Twelve hours made this dream seem more far fetched than it already was.
The Arab Spring in the Middle East began in 2011, which seems like a long time ago now. Riots broke out in Cairo announcing the beginning of the Jan. 25 Revolution in Tahrir Square. The revolution was successful—or at least I thought it was at the time. I thought that revolution was the end of all our misery; mine and all Egyptians.
Time passed and during the presidential elections in June 2012, people went to vote and choose who they thought would be fit to lead the country during this sensitive time. That was the first time their vote mattered in all of Egypt’s recent history because they were sure that these elections were not rigged, which was the norm of the old regime.
Once the election committee announced that the president of the Egyptian Arabic Republic was Mohamed Mohamed Morsi Issa Al-Ayyat, a president chosen by the people and for the people, I thought there would be no more revolts. We were all in celebration and I said to myself: “Yes! No more corruption. No more oppression. No more bad days and only good days will come. Now I can build my country and contribute to the positive future that lies ahead.”
But that was not the case. Any dreams for change are undesirable in the Middle East, and it had to be crushed down quickly and violently.
Following the election, President Morsi was taken to an unknown location, making the chief justice interim president until new presidential elections took place. Those who supported President Morsi and denied the military coup led by the minister of defence, Abdel Fattah al-Sisi, decided to protest by participating in sit-ins at the Rabaa al-Adiwaya Square and al-Nahda Square until the president returned to his rightful place to lead the country during his term in office. I was with the protesters at heart, even though I was watching all of this through a television screen in the comfort of my home. I was always watching the live stream of the sit-in, and waiting for the moment to announce President Morsi’s return.
My 13-year-old self at the time could not accept a coup d’état, nor accept that politics is truly a dirty game. I was not mentally ready to accept that Egypt was back at square one, and that we could only move backwards from then. That is probably why my brain is semi-stuck on August 14, 2013, and has not moved from the chaos of that day.
It was 4 a.m. on Wednesday, August 13. My mum, younger sister and I were getting ready to fast the next day. A week before, threats and rumours of clearing the Rabaa al-Adiwaya and the Nahda squares were spreading very quickly, like a deadly disease infecting the population. We decided to stay up and see if the protestors would continue with their sit-in at Rabaa al-Adiwaya Square or if they would be violently forced to leave.
Time went by slowly; minutes passing seemed like decades. I was biting my nails and clasping and unclasping my small clammy hands. My mum knew I was nervous, but she assured me that everything would be fine. She didn’t want to scare me. After all, I was just an innocent thirteen-year-old, trying to wrap my head around this tense and complicated situation.
Finally, it was six o’clock, and nothing happened. At last, we decided it was another rumour and went to bed. I slept peacefully, knowing that these protesters were alive, knowing that they would continue with their sit-in until President Morsi was declared the rightful president of Egypt again; knowing that more people would join the protesters in Rabaa Square as the days came. However, my peaceful sleep did not last long.
At 7:30 a.m., the unusually loud and urgent ring of a phone disturbed the quiet morning and the stillness of the house. I woke up and my mum was already on the phone. My sister woke up too—she looked confused, much like I was. Soon that confusion turned to extreme anxiety and worry when my mum answered in an alarmed tone.
“Who is speaking?… Oh, hello, why are you calling so early? Is something wrong with dad (meaning my grandfather)?… No, so what is wrong?… No, he (meaning my dad) went to work… Are you kidding me?!… When?… Ok, I will check now. Bye.”
That was all that I heard. I had no clue what happened—nor did my sister, who could not stop asking me about what the phone call meant. I heard my mum rush to the living room and turn on the television. My sister followed me very closely as I walked in to watch.
The first sights I saw were corpses and blood, the first sounds I heard were gunshots and screams, the first smells I smelled were teargas and smoke, the first feelings I felt were fear and hopelessness. I tried to say something, but my throat was as dry as a desert and I could not even utter a word or shriek. All I did was look at my mother for support, but she too was shocked. Tears filled her eyes and I knew it was over. My dream of a better future shattered at that very moment.
Police and army members were forcefully and violently evacuating the Rabaa sit-in with orders from government officials at the time. The misery started all over again. I felt my heart seize up in my small rib cage and I was sweating uncontrollably. I always knew they would empty the square, but I denied the possibility. It never occurred to me that an Egyptian soldier would shoot an Egyptian citizen, who can be his friend or neighbour or even family. I thought that the army would point their weapons to enemies of Egypt, but not their fellow Egyptians themselves. I was shocked, paralyzed, and glued in front of the television screen—refusing to leave the room and trying to process this barbaric scene.
The irony of the situation? Speakers on police cars said that they were clearing the sit-in with consideration to human rights while providing safe exits for all protesters, yet as soon as they finished playing their recorded message, a sniper fired. A shot filled with hatred and death, a shot that immediately ended the life of a protester, hitting him in the head, shattering his hard skull. Human rights—are you kidding me? There were no safe exits. I saw peaceful protesters leave Rabaa Square get sniped in the head and fall on the ground. They just lied there: lifeless dead bodies. There were exits, but I can tell you they weren’t safe for anyone.
What affected me the most was a small boy, seven or eight years old, screaming with such agony that it made your heart tear apart. He saw his dead mum lying on the ground in the small field medical hospital that doctors created in the Rabaa Square. She had a bullet that cost less than an Egyptian pound in her body.
He screamed at her, telling her “Mum! Mum! I beg you, wake up. Don’t go. Please, Mum! In the name of God wake up!” I lost control of my emotions and I broke down, with big hot tears pouring down my small red cheeks. For me, at that very moment, the country was lost; and it would not come back to us for a very long time.
At last, they finished emptying the square and I went back to sleep. My once-warm heart became as cold as ice. It has been seven years since that day, and I’m now twenty years old, yet I still remember that Wednesday very well as if it was yesterday. Seven years have passed and the murderers are still out there, ending the lives of many more with no one stopping them.
Egypt is now ruled by Sissi—the leader of the coup d’état who has a military background, just like the old Mubarak regime that was overthrown during the Jan. 25 revolution. In 2020, Egypt is in a far worse position than before the coup. According to the 2019 Legatum Prosperity Index, Egypt ranked 161 in personal freedoms out of 167 countries and nations—higher than only 3.6 per cent of those ranked. The country’s overall rank fell eight positions since President Morsi’s leadership in 2012—from 118 to 126. The strategies of so-called “President” Sissi are harming the country. These horrific rankings break my heart, but the truth must be told even if it is painful.
Although Egypt is facing dark days now, that does not mean that Egypt will stay this way forever. This regime will go, just like how the Mubarak Regime went. It is just a matter of time. I am hopeful that something better is coming, and who knows? Maybe there is a new Arab Spring simmering in the Middle East, and it is waiting for the right temperature to reach its boiling point and explode, just like in 2011. When that happens, I hope the whole world will listen and will be on our side, very much like how they listened during the Jan. 25 revolution.
Featured graphic by Sara Mizannojehdehi.
