Nancy - February 6, 2011

I’ve had it. Kefaya. Fuck this revolution and the bullshit. I did my bit. I went to Tahrir with Hamed on February 2nd, I did the whole flag waving and chanting thing, and yeah it felt good and I got caught up in the euphoric spirit of we can take him down this is our country blabla bla, but then men on camels and horses came flying in through Abdel Moneim Riyad’s side, and I was stuck in the middle of the square for four hours before we could get out safely through the flying Molotov cocktails and stone throwing.

I don’t call that protesting. I don’t care who was on the other side. Everyone has conspiracy theories: snipers on the rooftop shooting down at us, Mubarak thugs hired to ride in on their camels, policemen in plainclothes throwing rocks and Molotovs at us from the Museum side; I DON’T CARE. I want to be safe again.

Not even home is safe. Driving past shops and banks getting looted, cars set on fire, kids running through traffic carrying piles of stolen goods; this isn’t a revolution. This is anarchy.

My best friend’s dad got stabbed two nights ago; his watch and wallet stolen. Now he’s in ICU. He’s 55. For what? For Mubarak to leave?

I want my life back. I want to go out dancing and wear nice clothes; I want my tequila shots with the girls and my high heels. I want to sleep at night without hearing the sounds of people banging stones against the metal barricades, like a nightmare scene out of Lord of the Rings.

Hamed and I couldn’t be more different; I don’t understand how we shared the same womb. He’s all fiery and confident that what he’s doing is right, and I tagged along a few times to let him convince me. But no. At some point you either choose to keep caring – which means no sleep, migraines, dealing with your neurotic family and friends calling up to curse Hamed and his friends for destroying the country – or you stop.

We still have a curfew. But nothing really closes in Cairo. Makani’s open till midnight, and Pub 28 and Amici are packed till 2AM as if there’s no revolution on the other side of the Nile. And I’m ok with that. This is my world.

It feels good to put on lip gloss and flick my hair back, laughing at the flat screen NOT showing news but music videos. Flirting with the hot bartender, comparing nail polish and summer holiday plans with my friends – although it’s pointless to make any plans now, when you don’t know if you’re going to make it home tonight– this is the Egypt I know.

Hamed hates this part of me. He says I live like I’m in another world. ‘This is not Egypt,’ he’ll say and then point towards Downtown, the hub of all noise and chaos. ‘That’s Egypt.’
I have no clue how we were born five minutes apart and yet are polar opposites.

I don’t apologise for who I am and I certainly don’t apologise for not being with the Tahrir-loving crowd. You get your kicks watching young men get shot, you get gassed and so you call yourself a hero. Good for you.

All companies have been shut down for a week now and considering I work in PR, and this is one hell of a PR disaster, I’m not quite sure if I’ll have a job by the end of this month.

I’m dating a Belgian man called Ronald. He’s only here for another month, but with the way things are going, who the fuck cares? We get deliciously drunk together, he pays the tab, and I feel this rush of mad happiness when we exit the bar onto the quiet street.

Sometimes, in these brief moments of incontrollable joy, I wonder if this is what insanity is. A perpetual high where you lose control over your body and judgment, do stupid things like making out in front of the valet or driving recklessly, laughing out loud. I don’t know. All I know is that when we get back to his place, have a few more drinks and fall on top of each other, sex makes me feel normal again. And I can keep going all night. In that coming together of skin on skin, I feel alive and wonderful and sexy; and I remember life before January 25 and how perfect it was. I get some of it back in this naked, drunken mess on Ronald’s king-sized bed.

Don’t judge me. You hate me because I’m the other side of your coin. I’m not in the square, but that doesn’t make me any less worthy than you. I’ve decided to survive, and if that means getting drunk every night and flirting my way through ten army checkpoints to get home past curfew and almost crash my car; then so be it. I don’t plan to see another boy shot in the head again. Shokran.