The first time I went to Tahrir Square I danced with a bride-to-be celebrating her henna night, she was dressed in white, her hands were painted in the traditional henna patterns, drums were beat, strangers handed her money and roses – her smile was shy and yet radiant as the crowd danced around her.
That same night I was shown the wounds left in a guy’s leg from two rubber bullets during the revolutionary protests of 25 January.
The second time I went to Tahrir Square there was no bride to be, instead there was a group, rather bravely given the audience, chanting slogans praising the deposed former president Hosni Mubarak. Again I was shown bullet wounds from the 18-day battle for democracy.
Both times I have been bought tea by young people sitting on rugs simply enjoying the atmosphere.
Tahrir – which rather aptly translates as ‘independence’ – is not a square at all. It is a huge roundabout, there are no statues, a few shrubs but no large trees, and the expansive circular grass area in the middle has been trodden to mud in parts. It is a magical place.
The people of Cairo have always used Tahrir as a place to sit and relax in the evenings but of course after the 18-day battle that raged here so recently, and triggered uprisings across many other African and Middle Eastern countries – every moment here is now more poignant.
Osama Dahab relishes the sense of freedom as he smokes, chats and drinks tea but he also can not forget that this is the place where his brother died.
Muhammad Abdin Mgid Abdob and his wife Iman sit close together on the grass in animated conversation. They speak very few words of English but Muhammad manages to tell me that he is “very happy for the new Egypt”. He also takes off his shoe to show where a bullet passed through his foot – months later his foot is still swollen.
There is a family from Yemen on holiday. It is there first night here in Egypt and Tahrir is their first stop. The children have taken advantage of the face-painters which frequent Tahrir, brandishing plastic cups filled with black, white and red – the colours of the Egyptian flag.
Their father, who doesn’t want to be named as he has a politically sensitive job, explains that the writing accompanying the flags is “Here is Egypt, here is Yemen” and that he is proud that Yemen started its own revolution soon after Egypt – although the outcome of theirs is still in the balance.
“I like this area, especially because of the Tahrir revolution. I hope we’ll have the same outcome in Yemen as in Egypt,” he says.
“I think [the outcome of the revolution in Yemen] will be OK but it’s very slow, slow, slow [getting there].
“We would like freedom, we would like everybody to know everything, do anything. I think our children will have a better life – this is what we hope.”
For a group of three professional Egyptian women in their 20s, sitting in Tahrir and drinking tea after a window-shopping expedition, the immediate outcome of the 25 January revolution is uncertainty. Two are accountants and they tell me that all government jobs are now in jeopardy. Two of them, 27-year-old accountant Hager and 23-year-old lawyer Heba, are staunch supporters of the revolution. Heba took part in the celebrations after Mubarak was forced to step down and her face lights up as she describes the euphoria she felt.
Haber tells me that even now: “When we come to Tahrir, we feel very happy”.
The youngest of the trio, a 21-year-old accountant, also named Heba, is not so happy. She supported Mubarak and tells me: “He’s not Hitler”. Her friends disagree but just like the pro-Mubarak chanters are allowed to rally in relative peace, their different political views hasn’t stopped this friendship.
And despite her support for Mubarak 21-year-old Heba joins her two friends in praising the transition to democracy – which all three believe the military government in power now will indeed deliver.
She says: “We want everyone to know we like all the people in the world and we hope Egypt will be the most beautiful country in the world.”
article by Chrisanthi Giotis
