I realize I’ve yet to give much detailed explanation or thought on recent events in Egypt. I hardly knew what to think or expect. Recently, I was given the opportunity to write a letter to the editor for the University newspaper, The Skyliner. To that article I do forward you:
I noticed an Egyptian pound in my pocket today. I am not sure how it got there. I did not move it. Egypt has methods of reminding me of herself.
My caf serves pita. I dream of aish.
Striding along cold concrete University sidewalks, I cannot but think, these are the shoes that walked Tahrir.
I watch videos from the warm chrysalis of my room, and I wonder, where is the woman to whom I gave alms? Where are the mischievous youth with their games in the streets? Who hangs out on the bridges with brightly colored scarves?
The henna from the khan al-khalili faded away in the weeks after my arrival home, the one visible mark that cried “I was there, but now I am not!”
The nail polish is gone from one foot, but holds resiliently to the nails of the other. My Egyptian polish is red, bright red, the color of spirit, the color of vivacity, the color of crimson blood. It is the clash of worlds.
My Arabic numeral timepiece hangs around my neck, close. And I wait.
I decide to take the elevator down from the flat. Inside the elevator, alone and abandoned in the corner, rests a large white trashbag, which I equate to an abandoned waif in an unfamiliar world.
I exit the building and take to the streets, only to witness a woman hurling a folded newspaper to a second story balcony. At first I think she is trying to get someone’s attention, but then I realize she is carrying several other newspapers, explaining her extraordinary precision.
I take a right.
Nestled dangerously close between two cars is a truck plastered with the phrase “We Can’t Spell it Right WithoutU.”
I continue to walk down the streets, taking care to watch my step with due caution to oncoming traffic, taxis and mule carts included.
Two minutes of nonstop action.