After
a long and grueling speech by, Farouk Sultan the PEC
high commissioner, it's
finally clear: Mohammad Morsi is the new and improved president of
Egypt. One of his first undertakings is to resign his position as
head of the Freedom and Justice Party. Tahrir fills up, from a throng
of a few thousand, to a chanting, jubilating, dancing legion of many
thousands. It's the first time I witness Tahrir celebrating in this
way. It's a cause I don't feel part of. They chant “Shafiq, who is
your president? Morsi!”
At an
appointment at Darb 1718, which I find out is a house in a quarter
rennovated by an Italian cultural fund in 1998, we sit, drinking Shay
Koshary, discussing dogs, the army and cats in the quiet evening air
that blows in coptic Cairo. On the way back, I notice that the
spectacle of the election has given way to a much older conflict:
England is playing against Italy and no amount of politics is going
to interrupt the sporting pleasure this causes many. If twitter is
any indication, the grand celebration on Tahrir is not happening. A few hours
ago, everyone was cracking jokes about Sultan, now they are
cheering on their favourite European football teams. The contrast is
almost jarring.
On
the metro, I feel the need to crack spy jokes as I'm accosted by
several youth who are surprised that I speak Egyptian Arabic. They
take it well, asking me whom I spy for and inviting me energetically
to join them in the celebration. They are clearly excited at the
result. Let them have their night. The day has been long and I slip
out of their grasp. I have had my fill of Tahrir for the day.
I
get off at Sadat, avoiding Tahrir and the party, and walk home
through Bulaq. Everyone is on their motorcycles, trying to dodge
microbusses. A couple stop to select a nightee. Two kids, no older
than 12, ride a diminutive motorbike and stop to adjust their
too-large trousers. On the 15th
of May bridge, I overhear a man telling his friend “Hadn't we
agreed that we'd commit suicide? Come, film me.” This sounds
serious, a click but no splash ensues. A strong wind blows at me from
the north, making me stop momentarily and stick my nose into it.
It's
either Islamists, or Italy whereever my feet lead me tonight. I get
stopped twice by bearded men who welcome me to Egypt, attempts at
demonstrating that the basic friendly nature of Egypt hasn't changed.
“Oh dear,” writes a friend “is this the day when I finally have
to leave Egypt?” Twitter is now comparing the drawn-out football
match to Sultans address. The address was more interesting.
On the way home, I run into Muharram, the night watchman. I tell him,
sarcastically, that all that is happening outside is quite beautiful,
hoping that he will catch my slightly sour, sarcastic note. He
doesn't suspect that I may hide some humour somewhere. He voted
Shafiq, who could indeed straighten the country out with a couple of
phone calls. He tells me of the repercussions this will have, Mursis
mental illness and pills. He tells me this is going to lead to more
violence, that news reports will be spread about attempted terrorist
attacks, murders and kidnappings. A puppet president has been created
for SCAF to demonstrate their superior leadership. Then he tells me
about the spy gear his friend brought back from China.
The
high point of my day is a Facebook message from Don Karl, soon to be
followed by an Email from Mia Grohndahl, a Swedish publisher. The
Munaqqabat with Minis, an act of street art desperation performed on
my last visit to Egypt, are going to be Miss June in a calendar. Inspired by the intelligence and natural
subversiveness and humour of Egyptian women, I hope I did justice to
the gender that has been called “the backbone of the revolution”
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