Beit al-Umma

We walked past the former home of Saad Zaghloul on what would have otherwise been a beautiful Friday afternoon. Zaghloul was a nationalist leader in the 1910s, and a figurehead in the 1919 Revolution against the British. This house -- about a mile south of Tahrir Square -- was known as ‘Beit al-Umma’ (Home of the Nation) during the British occupation, and has become an enduring symbol of Egyptian national pride. Walking past it on January 28 was a strange sort of historical crossroads. Here was a carefully preserved site of protest against oppression, and as I turned the corner, I watched as Egyptians crowded the streets, shouting as riot police fired rubber bullets and propelled tear gas at them.

A group of us took the Metro that afternoon to Zaghloul station -- the last stop before the Metro bypassed the Sadat and Nasser stations, which fed downtown. We planned to offer some medical assistance to the demonstrators. We were supposed set up shop in an apartment nearby, and offer water, oil, antiseptic, and other remedies for those affected by the tear gas and rubber bullets.

I was drawn nearer downtown for a complex set of reasons. When we woke up that morning the internet was no longer working, and by mid-morning our cell phones were glorified pocket watches. Our only source of information was now satellite television, and landline telephones. Being cut off from information made me want to see what was happening with my own eyes.

As a foreigner, however, it did not feel right to join in the actual protests. Whatever my frustrations with the Mubarak regime, whatever my love for Egypt and its people, this did not feel like my fight. Moreover, foreigners were discouraged from participating because the government often used their presence to discredit popular uprisings. The chance to offer medical assistance seemed like the only reasonable excuse to go. If there was a chance I could help, without joining in the actual demonstrations, I wanted to be there.

When we turned that corner past Beit Al-Umma, it was clear that things were more intense than we had anticipated. The building we were supposed to use was probably 100 feet from the crowd of demonstrators. The boab (porter) wanted nothing to do with us, insisting that we leave. While we stood in the stairwell arguing with him, the riot police pushed back the crowds with a wave of rubber bullets and tear gas.

Suddenly the building’s ground floor flooded with people, clamoring to get up the stairs and escape the tear gas. The gas came with them, wafting up the stairs. We all covered our faces. We grabbed supplies and attempted to offer whatever assistance we could.

I worked as a sort of gopher -- grabbing cotton, kleenex, water, or antiseptic and taking them downstairs. I took a handkerchief from one of the bags, doused it in water and tied it around my face so that I could keep moving without also succumbing to the effects of the tear gas.

The gas takes over your sinuses. First it singes the back of your throat, and then, just as you feel the sensation of breathing it in, your eyes begin to burn. I heard a rumor that someone with severe asthma died from exposure to it -- I can’t confirm the report, but it does not surprise me.

In my memory now, the ground floor is a brightly colored blur, punctuated by faces. A man who had been shot just below his nose with a rubber bullet, and his friend applying ice and antiseptic. A middle-aged woman who staggered to stand and cried out to the people around her. A girl asking me for ‘Kleenex.’ A man, looking exhausted, face red and tear-stained. A little boy, perhaps the boab’s son, who told me his name was Ahmed.

As the riot police continued to bear down on the protestors, the wave of people seemed to dissipate. We saw some new faces after that first group left, but for the most part the crowd thinned. When we realized how close the police were to the front door, we started to fear for our own safety.

The women in our group took cover in an apartment. We could peer down from the bedroom and watch the police draw nearer and nearer. The men, meanwhile, were stuck on a sort of landing outside one of the building's windows.

The police entered the building. We held our breath, unsure of what would happen next. The ramifications of being arrested... I couldn’t think about it. If they tried to arrest the men, what would we do? What could we do? You couldn’t stay inside. Had we endangered this family that had so kindly protected us? I prayed.

Thankfully the police told us to leave. One of the men came to get us from the apartment, we quickly grabbed our things, and made our way back to the street.

I have no idea how long we were there. It probably wasn’t more than an hour. I remember standing, staring at the front door after the last wave of the protestors returned to the street, looking at the blue floor now littered with footprints. There was a sense of awe that escapes words. Perhaps it was an overwhelming sense of possibility -- that the possibility of change had been exhibited right before our eyes.

We walked back to the metro, turning the corner once again at Beit al-Umma. I could not think of a more fitting place to watch Egypt rise up against oppression once again.