Sherif - January 29, 2011

What else was I supposed to do? The parents were still in Saudi for Dad’s treatment and Amani was alone in the flat in Cairo. Was I supposed to leave her alone in the chaos?

The news channels here in London only show hourly reports of the same footage over and over again, buildings burning, grim, dangerous men waving fists at the camera and chanting incoherently, and the last thing I hear from Amani is that she’s going to Tahrir. I have to get her back. I have to go and bring her back to Jeddah and the family. What is she doing?

She was always so obstinate, so self righteous in her political opinions. These human rights activists; they have an aloofness to them, a supreme belief that they’re better than us because they don’t work in a bank or on an oil rig.
Well I work in a bank, and I make damn good money, and I’m not ashamed of it. I’m buying my parents a nice home in a compound outside of Cairo, I just changed in my car for a sweet two-seater, and I can travel anywhere I want whenever I want.

I love Egypt, don’t get me wrong, but right now, with people killing each other and looting shops and banks, I want my family out of there. Until things calm down. And how will this get rid of Mubarak? How exactly does burning the NDP building bring down a president? I’d like to hear her argue that point. I’d like to hear her voice.

So far, she’s rarely at home when I call the landline number, her friend Mona answers and tells me she’ll be back later. She lies to me that Amani is in Zamalek with her friends; but I know where she is, the bloody-minded fool.

I tried to change my flight back to Cairo two days ago, as soon as the shit hit the fan, but it’s been absolute madness here. Egypt Air’s hotline is jammed, their office literally has a queue of desperate Egyptians lined up outside around the corner, and I can’t find a damn flight going home.
There’s news of panic at Cairo Airport, of people sleeping on the floors waiting for flights to leave the country, of desperate tussles with the passport and control officers.

Today, they announced that flights had been cancelled and some planes had to turn back mid-air when the government imposed a new curfew until midnight. Who the fuck imposes a curfew on Egyptians? We don’t sleep, we break traffic lights, and we double park. We don’t fucking listen to laws; we just walk nonchalantly around them.

I’m on Flight EA005 to Cairo, expected arrival 2AM. I’m one of fifty people on the plane. It’s a sad sight. You’d think more people would be desperate to come home to save their families, or even take part in the protests or whatever, but no.
I have the latest Newsweek on my lap; its front cover is the face of an angry Egyptian man, a yellow scarf wrapped around his mouth, fire burning in the background. This is perhaps the first time I’ve seen an Egyptian my age on the cover of Newsweek, and I can’t help feeling proud.
I don’t know how I feel about these protests, but we’ve made it into each and every newspaper in Heathrow Airport’s magazine rack. That’s something to be said of our generation.

When the plane flies over Cairo, the city is dark save for sporadic bonfires spread out through the streets. They told me about the neighbourhood patrols that were set up yesterday. I suppose that explains the fires.

Cairo Airport is crammed with bodies sleeping on every possible surface. Middle aged men in expensive suits are leaning over their suitcases, their heads lulling in sleep. Entire families are spread out on the ceramic floors, occupying pillars and whatever corners they can find to rest their heads against. I walk towards the exit.

‘I need a taxi please,’ I ask the waiting security guard.

‘No,’ he says simply.

‘What do you mean no?’

‘You’re not leaving the airport, sir. There’s a curfew. No one leaves, no one enters, unless at their own risk.’

‘Okay, then,’ I laugh, ‘I’ll leave at my own risk, how much will it cost?’

‘I can take you for 200LE,’ says a driver standing by. ‘But not before six in the morning.’

A cab drive to Dokki would usually cost 60, maybe 80 tops if you’re feeling generous.

‘Are you crazy, man? 200LE? I’m an Egyptian, not a foreigner.’

‘Ya Beh, I can’t get to my friend who’s out on the road just twenty minutes away,’ the driver pleads.
‘It’s so dangerous; he can’t come to me, and I can’t come to him.’

‘What’s the danger? Who’s the danger? Is the army going to shoot us?’

‘No ya basha, there are thugs on the loose. They opened the prisons and the police stations, there are criminals killing and stealing everywhere. It’s chaos out there.’

I walk to the information desk.

‘I need a room in any of your hotels.’
‘They’re fully booked, sir.’
‘Even the suites?’
‘Even the presidential suites, sir. Everything has been fully booked for days. No one can find a place to stay. You’re best off sleeping here. It’s safer.’

I look around me. I’m being held hostage in my own airport with hundreds of other Egyptians, most probably trying to leave, while I’m trying to enter this Godforsaken country.

Amani had better be home when I get here. She’d better be safe and healthy or I swear to God, I will take her by her hair and drag her back to this airport and onto the next flight. For now, I need to wait.

I find an empty pillar to rest against; use my carry-on as a cushion and my raincoat as a sheet over the cold ceramic floor. I close my eyes, and listen to the hysterical conversations around me. Everyone is trapped. She'd better be fine. She's a clever girl. Almost thirty. She should know how to protect herself. She's probably fine. I hide my head in my hands. She'd better be.

At six fifteen, I find a taxi driver who’s willing to take me to Dokki for 170LE. The bank branch at the airport changed my one hundred sterling bill into Egyptian pounds, the cashier kept warily asking me ‘Are you sure this is all you want to exchange, sir?’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘There’s a cash shortage, sir. All banks are closed. We’ve shut all the ATMs. You’re going to need whatever cash you have, sir.’

I shrug him off; surely he’s just saying this to make me panic. Two days later, I discover he is right.

We drive through the back roads of Nasr City, the driver takes constant detours, ‘To avoid the checkpoints, ya basha,’ he explains.

We pass bonfires burning in the dawn light, haggard men in gallabeyas carrying sticks and metal rods. The streets are deserted, a rare sight in Cairo, and then we are stopped by a military checkpoint: two massive tanks and several armed soldiers bar our way.
I have never seen a tank up close before. The rifle pointed at my face is a novelty, too.

The taxi driver sweet talks them, shows a printed card.

‘Look I have the permit, sir! I’m taking this client to the Grand Hyatt, I swear.’

‘Weren’t you just here a few hours ago?’

‘What can I do ya Basha? His father is in hospital, I have to take him as fast as possible.’

They begrudgingly stand back, then make a show of checking my luggage – briskly patting through my dirty shirts and sniffing my eau de cologne bottle – then they let us by. I’m shaken. This is not Cairo. It’s a war zone.

The bridges are all blocked by large tanks at their exits and entrances, their stouts pointed towards me. So we take the long and winding Abbaseya road, till there’s no other choice but the Six October Bridge.

More sweet talking, more card flashing. More tanks.

And there it is. I crane my neck back as we pass it, the building still spewing fumes, its windows gutted and debris everywhere. The NDP building. It really did burn. I’m in a nightmare. My city is burning. This is my turf, my childhood home, my school bus routes, my cruising with friends, smoking hash and eating greasy shawerma. My football matches, my family lunches at the Car Club, my tailor fitting me for my first suit.
This is my home.

The taxi winds through my neighbourhood, I see exhausted and wary men watch me go by, all carrying sticks, batons and metal rods. I don’t recognize them.

I get out at the building, tip him an extra ten, load my luggage into the elevator, and breathe short deep breaths, praying with every fibre in my body that Amani is there and she is alright.

I can’t find the keys, they’re somewhere in the mess of my carry-on that I fumble through, so I ring the doorbell once, twice, urgently, until someone opens the door.

She has a scarf loosely flung around her head, grabs it closer when she sees me, her eyes damp and red. I take one look at her and start heaving. A grown man of 36 is about to cry in front of a stranger in his own home.

‘Where. Is. Amani?’ I manage to choke, and then she appears behind the girl, groggy in her loose pyjama trousers and messy hair, stumbling towards me, and into my arms.

And then I cry for real.
I’m home.