Some
American press painted Egypt pre- and immediately post-coup Egypt as stuck
between the unfortunate rock and hard place of a military coup and an illiberal
democracy. One of my professors sees the tension and violence Egypt faces as
that stemming from a fundamental disagreement about the nature of the
state—liberal or Islamic. It's a clash of lifestyles and worldviews, not mere
political systems.
I’m
going to try to do here what I tried to do in Egypt, usually with success, and
hold my tongue on my own opinions. I arrived in the last month of Morsi’s
twelve months of rule; there’s a lot I didn’t see, a lot I can only take or
reject people’s word on. In the end, as an American student having studied at
the American University, that’s all I can really do.
Besides
that, my personal opinion is largely unimportant. What I think didn’t put 22
million signatures on the Tamarrud (“Rebellion”) petition and even more in the
streets across Egypt, for the President or against him. What I think hasn't
left hundreds dead.
But
first, let me clear a few things up: two things these protests are
fundamentally not are sectarian, and anti-American.
I did
feel a very unfortunate religious divide in Egypt between its Muslim majority
and sizable Christian minority (usually placed around 10%, some estimates going
as high as 20%, or 16 million). Nevermind the decades of flagrant
discrimination in licensing church construction and repair, and the stories of
anti-Christian mobs in the south operating with near-impunity: a standard
template of street acquaintance conversations included "inta muslim?"
("Are you Muslim?") or "diyantak 'ey?" ("What's your
religion?").
Responses
were always courteous, but I feel the fact that it's even an introductory
question, that Egyptian ID's are required to list religion, speaks to a
division that the joint prayers in Tahrir and "Christian + Muslim =
Egypt" graffiti can never more than paper over.
Egyptian
Christians by and large oppose Islamism and espouse liberal or secular
political frameworks. This puts them in the same squares they've held for over
two years, alongside millions of like-minded Muslims. Any civil strife Egypt
has endured and is set to face is not sectarian in nature.
Nor is
it profoundly anti-American. In fact, I'd say that annoyance with the painfully
clear spinelessness of American policy in Egypt is one of the few things both
sides can agree on right now. Despite the widespread claim among opposition
that America helped install the Brotherhood, and the pro-Morsi camp's disgust
at the weak international response to the President's unseating, America's a
farcical sideshow to the looming military-Brotherhood conflict.
I was
always very careful when Egyptians asked my opinion on the political scene—as
I’ve said, I didn’t really have the right, given my circumstances, to a stance
I felt comfortable expressing. Usually I’d feel them out first, take things
from there. If pro-Morsi, I’d chime in that he was democratically elected for
four years before lightly devil’s-advocating that if over 20 million people
(out of 80-odd million) were in the streets against him, there probably was a
serious problem. If anti-Morsi, I’d say the same but flip the order.
Regardless
the position I’d end with “God be with you” and “God help Egypt.”
The
first conversation I remember was with sixteen year-old Ahmad on the Metro.
After the introductory “Amriiki inta?” (“You’re American?”) exchange it came
out that Ahmed was an Ultras Ahlawy, diehard fan of the renowned al-Ahly soccer
club.
The
Ultras were in many ways the 2011 Revolution’s vanguard, the only sizable group
of civilians not afraid of the police. They were on the frontlines of the
earliest clashes. In Feb. 2012 a match between al-Ahly and al-Masry
disintegrated into chaos when fans of the latter attacked those of the former.
The police stood by or encouraged the violence, and 79 people died, the
youngest 15. Ahmed’s left arm was broken.
He told
me many interesting things about Egypt, Israel, America, and his future
vis-a-vis the first two. He has a few years left of secondary school, then
wants to enter the army to fight Israel. But before all that "nusqit
Morsi" ("we topple Morsi"). His casual reference to
overthrowing a second government made it sound like the next item on a laundry
list.
Among my
misadventures in Cairo were unadvisable eating patterns that eventually put me
overnight in the hospital. Once I stopped vomiting and settled in the rest of
the day was slothing, eating, and doing my linguistic best to keep up banter
with the doctors and staff. Despite some things going over my head I had no
issue deciphering their stance on Morsi. "Mish 'ayzeenu," the
hijabbed nurse offered, enthusiastically and in front of her colleagues at the
desk: "We don't want him."
The
Tamarrud (Rebellion) Campaign was huge and very public. "6/30"
graffiti (in reference to the planned date of demonstration) was ubiquitous.
More than once I saw young men and women campaigning for signatures toward the
President’s resignation, more openly and fearlessly than any bake sale or
charity you've seen here. More successfully, too.
I
believe all the professors but one were against Morsi. In addition to the one
who read things as an almost-Huntingtonesque clash of cultures, another painted
the Brothers simply as snakes and liars. Their Masr 25 news channel, she said,
literally broadcasted lies, the complete opposite of things she’d occasionally
seen with her own eyes.
Good
thing, then, that Masr 25 and the two other prominent Islamist channels were
knocked offline by the military when the overthrow was announced.
The same
professor brought up several more points. The elections were fraught with
spending irregularities. Morsi distanced and disenfranchised his opposition,
even as things heated up in the days before 6-30 and the Army set a deadline for
a political solution to be reached; given another year, he probably would've
had the opposition imprisoned.
Democracy,
the professor continued, isn't just a ballot. For it to mean anything but mob
rule it must guarantee the rights of all, including minorities. This was a
particular concern of Egypt's Christians, subject to various forms of
oppression and marginalization since Abdel Nasser.
Beyond
even the dismal economic performance blamed, unfairly or not, on Morsi (see
David P. Goldman's "The Economic Blunders Behind the Arab
Revolutions"), the bottom line for many boiled down to a lack of trust:
though Morsi was elected for a four-year term (in what are, despite my
teacher's misgivings, generally seen as fair elections), the 20,000,000+ that
flooded Egypt's squares at the end of June had no confidence the Muslim
Brotherhood that controls him would abide by the democratic process.
But of course this isn't the whole story. Millions
have also taken to the streets in support of Morsi, or more precisely of his
legitimacy as President. I can't claim to have spoken with as many of these, if
only because it's frankly a dangerous opinion to hold these days.
The first one I met at a mosque off the main street in
Dokki, the day before the military announced its overthrow. His name may have
been Bassem—based on a phone contact I don't recognize—but I don't remember.
What I remember are his eyes, calm and steel-blue like some Egyptians have. His
point was simple but strong: Morsi was Egypt's democratically-elected
president. After praying, he told me, he was going to Nahda Square to join a
pro-Morsi demonstration. We exchanged contact info and amicably parted. My last
word was "God protect the Egyptian people."
That evening unknown parties descended on the square
and fired into the crowd. Eighteen were killed, dozens more wounded. I never
heard from the man again.
The other supporter I spoke to worked at the American
University (AUC) dorm's cafeteria. A name again evades me—I was only there for
a bowl of koshary, and they
say over half of Egyptian males are named either Muhammad or Ahmad anyway. His
tune was also legitimacy: you elected him, gave him four years, so how can you demand
he leave after just one? He also brought up an interesting point I heard
a few times in 2011: "Look at the two squares: in [opposition's] Tahrir
there's dancing, there's boisterous music, men mingling with women. In
[supporters'] Raabe'a al-'Adwiya they're praying. You want to talk about 'moral
high-ground'?"
That was a few hours before Al-Sisi announced the
overthrow. That night was a blur; if I saw the young man again, I have no
recollection.
As close as I got to Tahrir after protests started; just visible (I think) to the left of the pinkish Egyptian Museum. Photo snapped in the course of evacuation.
(A miscellaneous exercise in empathy for the American
reader: we can relate to our candidate losing an election—disappointment,
depression, perhaps anger or fear for society. Imagine for a second your
candidate winning, slogging through a year of bitter opposition before
being forcibly unseated by the military. Morsi's currently in his fourth week
of detention, incommunicado, recently charged with what could amount to
treason.)
I wrote a while back that the thing I'm least afraid
for and most sure I'll find intact whenever I return, is its binding sense of
community, the way you're never really alone, how people share your problems
and have your back. Sitting on this optimistic insight for the better part of a
month—admittedly thousands of miles from the streets that inspired it—I've come
to a new thought, far more disconcerting. Despite the small-unit cohesion in
Egyptian society, the bigger picture increasingly appears split between
opposing sides that don't yet show promising signs of backing down. I pray
reason return soon to the streets of Egypt.
