I’m sitting by the window people watching in an exceedingly popular Zemalek cafe. I’ve reached that happy place of whimsy and water-coloured dreams – a standard transit point for me when stationary in a place that’s entirely new. The images of people are fading into kaleidoscopic jewels of colour and sound. I’m drifting further and further away, arriving at a ludicrous but strangely moving scenario about an animal shelter for homeless and impossibly cute, Sphinxes. I begin to ponder the correct plural terminology for the noun Sphinx; could it be “Sphinxes,” or is it more likely to be “Sphinxii” (??) when I’m woken rather abruptly from this amusing flight of fancy. The waiter has brought the fashionable lady with the pilates bod and Rayban sunnies the wrong low-fat frappécino. She isn’t having a bar of it, so he returns the beverage to the tray and heads back to the kitchen.
It’s not enough to stir the table of students nearby who are busy discussing the football, nor does it attract the attention of the young emo couple who are otherwise engaged gazing – it must be said – a little too happily for type, into each others’ eyes. Almost all of the tables in this three-storey cafe are occupied and there’s a lot going on at each of them.
It’s easy to confuse this trendy and affluent suburb of Cairo with a bustling neighbourhood of New York. The steady dirge of evening traffic engulfs the ebb and flow of chit-chat, ring-tones and typing on laptop keyboards in a blanket of comforting distortion; while car horns punctuate the ambience with reminders of the monumental size of the city and the many lives going about their business within it.
I’ve been told repeatedly since I arrived that it’s a city of 25 million, supposedly a number that is steadily growing. I haven’t been able to verify that figure, but I can assure you that it’s one helluva picnic. Everywhere you look there are cars and people and even more people hiding behind those cars and people. I know it’s not much to go on, but all things considered, that number feels pretty right to me. It’s very important to note that in the richness of those numbers, it’s the unbelievably poor and indeed the extreme division of wealth in society that is startlingly apparent. I’ve only been here a very short time, but so far the only common-ground that I have noted between the vastly different social classes are Egyptian football and the revolution. The latter has had and continues to have an impact on everybody, irrespective of which socio-economic demographic they belong. It is the default topic of conversation.
I visited Tahrir Square a few times over the past two weeks. Quite often it’s empty, revealing a surprising, modestly sized circle – not square – of grass. In the absence of people, the long row of vendors across the road forms a kind of cap on this now notorious piece of real estate, their revolutionary merchandise, the only real evidence of what took place just over four months ago. The street sellers are flogging Egyptian flags and T-shirts. There’s a variety of them on offer; some with images of fists in the air, others with slogans like “we the people” and “one Egypt” – almost all of them sporting the now immortalised date of January 25, in a solid, bold font. Tomorrow afternoon the square will once again become the centre for demonstration – a convergence of local people from all different backgrounds united in their demands for real change and justice, as well as their impatience at the length of time it’s taking to arrive at that point.
It is in every way a place that feels on the brink of something new and powerful and necessary. Transition is rarely smooth and never in any instance, solely exciting. There is a palpable desperation of sorts in the air and perhaps a kind of fear that stems from certain uncertainty. But, underlying all of this, is a steadfast national pride that comes from knowing that power is with the people and when they unite, anything – except perhaps adopting a Sphinx – is possible.
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