Some Israelis sound very similar to Fatima when describing historic Palestine. They speak of a “united, undivided Jerusalem” as though the boundaries of the city were cut in stone; of “Judea and Samaria” rather than the West Bank or Palestine, as though their ancestors had left the territory yesterday.

Case in point: the question of “who came to the territory first.” Aluf Benn, in an article for Foreign Policy called “Understanding History Won’t Help Us Make Peace,” notes, “A 2003 Israeli textbook aimed at teaching the conflicting narratives side by side shows how pointless our debates have become: The Jewish narrative relies on the Bible to link today’s Israelis to the ancient Israelites while the Palestinian counternarrative reaches back to the Jebusites, who ruled Jerusalem before King David’s occupation, as the forefathers of contemporary Palestinians.”

What is the use of arguments like that, of going further back into ancient history, of “claiming” land that one has moved away from rather than trying to make a better place where one has ended up? Why always look backwards to a supposedly better time and place rather than forwards towards a better future? Such rhetoric encourages destruction and segregation rather than creation and collaboration.

The Haifa that the grandmother describes no longer exists, and possibly never did; nearly every grandparent tells such stories of their youth. Everything always looks better in memory, especially if one was young and strong at the time. Does that mean I should go back and reclaim the land my grandfather grew up on? Or — a subject close to my heart and work — that Somali refugee youth in the United States should go back to Somalia to claim the land their parents left rather than try to build a future for themselves in the States? In fact, rhetoric like that above has worked to encourage some Somali boys to return and helped turn a few of them into suicide bombers, too. If that is what such rhetoric brings, why would parents ever indulge this, encourage this? It’s self-annihilation.

Benn argues that it is only those leaders who have put history aside to focus on the future who have gotten anywhere. To create historical narratives is frequently to assign blame. To create peace is to find common ground and a future.

I want a future for the people of Israel-Palestine. The historical narratives can be written later.

It’s not as though we don’t have enough problems here deciding what’s “Israel” and what’s “territory,” who is Israeli (and what it means to be Israeli) and who falls into national no-man’s land. Now this ridiculous move to counter the “tragedy” of a desperate Palestinian Authority seeking UN recognition. Enough with the wishy-washy pretense of supporting a two-state solution, Netanyahu. If you’re going to take us into another war, at least be honest about your intentions. What this move says to me, to Palestinians, to the international community, is that you have no intention of ever allowing Palestinians to have their own, independent state.

Frankly, I’m not here to quibble about whether or not Israel should have been established in the first place, or whether it should have been established in historic Palestine or in Europe or in the mountains of Uganda. It exists, it has been recognized by the major international institutions, it has spilled blood and won wars and basically done everything that every other modern state institution has done to come into existence. I believe in its right to exist and I understand the desire of the Jewish people to have a nation, a country in which they are not a minority. But by killing the peace process, Netanyahu, you’re killing Israel and dishonoring those who fought for it to be a democratic, just country. You have Arab citizens and control over Arab-majority territory, and you have a responsibility to them as well — and even if you choose to ignore this, demographically, they will always be a “threat,” a bigger threat than your short-sighted, short-term settler constructions.

Wouldn’t an independent, democratic, functioning Palestinian neighbor be more secure than frustrated and disenfranchised Arab semi-citizens?

And another important link about ways to donate to help famine victims on Nicholas Kristoff’s blog.

Islamism in Somalia
Teresa Harings

On July 20th, the UN declared a famine in two areas of southern Somalia and later extended the designation to five of the country’s eight southern regions. In doing so, it incurred the wrath of the Islamist group that controls most of Somalia’s southern territory. Harakat Al-Shabab al-Mujahideen (“Movement of the Warrior Youth”) began restricting and banning foreign humanitarian organizations in 2009, accusing them of acting as Western spies and Christian crusaders. In response to the exigencies of the drought, it lifted the ban on July 6 only to impose it again following the UN’s declaration. An Al-Shabab spokesman accused the UN of political propaganda in applying the term “famine” only to the territory under its control, claiming that the situation there is not any worse than other drought-stricken areas in the Horn of Africa. Yet hundreds of thousands of Somalis continue to leave their homes in the countryside for Mogadishu, Somalia’s capital – from which Al-Shabab withdrew on August 6th, citing “tactical reasons” – or for Kenyan and Ethiopian refugee camps. Is the Islamist group’s popularity waning, and if so, what does this mean for the future of Islamism in the region?

Somali Islamism arose in the context of a broader international movement for the revitalization and reform of Islam. This movement corresponded with a political awakening in Somalia following its independence in 1960. As Somalis began studying and working abroad, they were exposed to the teachings of the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood and Saudi Wahhabis. Upon returning, they established organizations parallel to those in Arab countries, including Al-Islah, the Somali branch of the Muslim Brotherhood, and Wahda Al-Shabab al-Islami, also modeled on Egyptian Islamist networks. These movements did not enjoy popular support until the late 1970s, when they began to oppose the brutal military regime of General Siad Barre, who had seized power in a 1969 coup. Islamist activity was muted until 1975, when Islamists demonstrated against family legislation promising legal and economic equality for women. Numerous clerics were arrested and ten were executed. Islamist activity went underground until the late 1980s, when the Wahhabi-inspired group Al-Itihad al-Islami (AIAI) was formed. Following Siad Barre’s ousting in 1991, a variety of Islamist movements emerged, among which AIAI was the most powerful. It is credited with influencing and training the militants who later formed Al-Shabab. In the late 1990s, AIAI began disbanding due to internal divisions and, later, a loss of funding following US sanctions designating it a terrorist organization in 2001.

Al-Shabab emerged in 2003 in Mogadishu as a youth wing of the Islamic Courts Union (ICU), a coalition of shari`a-based courts formed in the political vacuum following Barre’s departure. The ICU became popular for its reputed discipline and good conduct. It employed its own militias and took control of Mogadishu in July 2006 – the first time in fifteen years that the city was under one force. However, the international community feared the ICU would offer a safe haven to Al-Qa`ida and establish a Taliban-style rule. (There were members within the ICU who did advocate extremist ideas, but the degree to which these ideas were accepted among the organization as a whole is unclear.) Six months later, Ethiopia (with US support) led a military mission that overthrew the ICU on behalf of the internationally supported Transitional Federal Government (TFG). The Al-Shabab militia, however, continued to fight the Ethiopians and the TFG.
The lack of security since the advent of civil war in 1991 has given Al-Shabab, which has an estimated seven to nine thousand fighters, political clout. Though Somali people are relatively homogenous ethnically, linguistically, and religiously (over 95% are Sunni Muslim), Somali society is organized into kinship-based clans. Islam is seen as a means of overriding clan ties to create a unified national identity. A Somali scholar who visited Islamist-controlled Mogadishu in 2006 saw “euphoria in the streets,” giving him the impression that the Islamists enjoyed popular support. The Islamists offered social services, ran the schools and health centers, and, for a tax, provided security to businesses. Despite its relatively small numbers, Al-Shabab has been able to control much of southern Somalia because clan leaders in those areas have been willing to cooperate with the group.

Since 2007, Al-Shabab leaders have pledged allegiance to Al-Qa`ida. However, the strength of this association is a matter of debate. Until recently, the groups’ ties appeared mainly ideological. Like Al-Qa`ida, Al-Shabab has actively recruited foreign fighters, particularly from Somali populations in Western countries. Western recruits’ passports and language skills make them valuable, and their deaths bring more attention to the group’s cause. Many of Al-Shabab’s recruitment videos employ American cultural signifiers like slang and rap music, and are narrated by Omar Hammami, a.k.a. al-Amriki, an American who uncovers his face, speaks English and vows with a smile to kill “all the enemy” and help establish an Islamic caliphate. He has recorded simple, catchy rap tracks to accompany footage of young men carrying weapons through the outback and preparing for a battle; one rap includes the lines, “Word by word, [George] Bush said the truth: You’re with them or you’re with the Muslim group.” The videos promise glorification in the name of Islam.

The June 8th killing of Al-Qa`ida operative Fazul Abdullah Mohammed in Mogadishu and the July indictment of Ahmed Abdulkadir Warsame, an alleged al-Shabab liaison to Al-Qa`ida, offer evidence of operational ties between the organizations. Yet Al-Shabab reportedly turned down an offer by Ayman al- Zawahiri to change its name to Al-Qa`ida in East Africa. Despite its diaspora networks and jihadi rhetoric, Al-Shabab has not attempted to extend its reach beyond Somalia. Foreign recruits, including three Americans who became suicide bombers, have so far been involved only in attacks related to developments within Somalia. And while on July 11, 2010, Al-Shabab claimed responsibility for twin bombings that killed more than 70 people watching the World Cup in Uganda, these bombings – the group’s first and only major attack outside Somalia – were linked to a domestic agenda: they were intended to pressure the Ugandan government to withdraw its soldiers from the African Union Mission in Somalia (AMISOM), an ally of the Transitional Federal Government (TFG).

Furthermore, Al-Shabab’s poor handling of the drought situation – particularly its limitation on international humanitarian aid – has tarnished its image and reportedly exacerbated a division in the leadership. The group’s general leader, Ahmed Abdi Godane, who is trying to forge closer ties with Al-Qa`ida in the Arabian Peninsula, seems to have been behind the ban on aid, against the advice of his deputies Muktar Ali Robow and Sheikh Hassan Dahir Aweys. Additionally, the UN’s Special Representative for Somalia suggested that Al-Shabab’s funding has decreased significantly, due in part to instability in the Middle East and North Africa, where some of its financial backers reside. With its withdrawal from Mogadishu, Al-Shabab appears to be losing its influence.

Yet the international community should not expect Islamist movements to fade from the political scene. Islam is a strong part of Somali identity and cannot be ignored in the state-building process. As the scholar Andre Le Sage points out, Somali Islamist movements’ ideologies and objectives “cover a wide spectrum of political philosophy.” Al-Islah, for example, promotes Islamic values through non-violent means. Perhaps with Al-Shabab losing ground, Somalis and the international community can find more flexible ways to incorporate Islamic values into a functioning government system. Until then, the hope is that humanitarian aid can be extended and increased. The drought is expected to last another six months, until the next harvest season in January 2012.

This quickly turned into a conversation about the Arab-Israeli conflict. In the driver’s opinion, it was not solvable, because “too many people benefit from the conflict. Everybody gets money” – the Israelis from the Americans and the West and the Palestinians from the NGOs and Muslim states.

Unfortunately, there’s a lot of truth in that.

For more about NGO involvement in the West Bank’s economy: “Palestine – ‘Occupation Incorporated.’”

For our part, Victoria, Sarah, Chanah and I all had a great time in Ramallah, a city that Israelis are forbidden to visit. (I understand that most Ramallans and other West Bankers, in turn, cannot go into Israel unless they have a visa or are Israeli citizens, e.g. living in East Jerusalem.) It’s one of the ironies of the conflict that foreigners like us can jump over boundaries without trouble, whereas these neighbors are frequently denied access to each other. When I tell Israelis that I’ve been to the West Bank, I get one of two reactions: (a) “Wow, you’re so lucky. I wish I could go. What was it like? Were the people nice? Tell me everything” or (b) “What, why? That’s so dangerous. Was it worth the risk?” Fortunately, among my associates, I’ve gotten more (a) responses than (b).

And yes, for me, it was worth the “risk,” though we encountered no trouble whatsoever. In fact, people were incredibly nice – helpful when we lost our way, friendly when we asked questions. Even the guys who honked or whistled at us didn’t come across as aggressive as, say, Tel Avivans at the beach. The food was delicious, and cheaper than in Israel – 4 shekels for falafel with pita, 3 shekels for a 1 L bottle of water – a phenomenon we attributed to some form of subsidy.

Ramallah is a bustling combination of old-school street markets and spice sellers hawking their wares and trendy stores, restaurants, and cafes equipped with wi-fi. There are dilapidated buildings and beautiful mansions, private schools run by Pennsylvania Quakers and Arab universities, women who cover their hair and those who don’t, foreign nationals and natives who’ve never been out of the West Bank. And Yassir Arafat’s mausoleum, a huge marble memorial guarded by soldiers, a curiously grandiose and empty place for the man who stuck to the following uncompromising stance: (from a sticker placed behind the driver of our Arab buses)

The tensions are obviously there. On my first trip, I ended up talking to a girl from East Jerusalem who goes through the checkpoints every day to attend university in the West Bank (Birzeit University). She said of the checkpoint, “Do you see what the Israelis have done to us?” She mentioned the daily inconvenience, the long waits, the occasional humiliations she experienced, being checked every time she wanted to travel a few kilometers to school. I thought very hard about how to respond. What was an inconvenience for her was a life-and-death matter to Israelis who fear suicide bombers. I knew what the response to this would be: If there were no occupation, there would not be any bombers. To which I could say: not necessarily, as there are those who do not accept a two state solution. And so on. In the end, I just continued to ask questions rather than insert any more opinions into an opinion-saturated debate.

Ali and Misha, husband and wife.

Misha, a dear friend, was also my flatmate in Tucson for almost two years–co-dishwasher, co-teacher (that’s “Ms. Misha” to some of you), co-Pride-and-Prejudice compulsive watcher. We even went speed-dating together. Uh huh. Once. Which was all it took: that’s where she met Ali, a computer engineering professor at the University of Arizona. (His research area is “reconfigurable computing specializing in application-specific reconfigurable architecture design space.” Say that three times fast.)

Misha also introduced me to Ofer. At the time, she and I were traveling in Mexico City over our spring school vacation; at our hostel the first evening, I, princess of the pillow, went to bed early, while Misha went to mingle with the international crowd on the hostel’s veranda. The next morning, I remember her saying, “I need to introduce you to this Israeli guy I met last night. He’s hilarious, and you and he have so much in common…”

In Tucson in 2008, the four of us watched Obama get elected: the Czech, the Turk, the Israeli, the American. Just saying that makes me laugh, and realize how ridiculous categorizing can be.

Three or so years later, and the Israeli and the American flew to Ankara, Turkey to witness the nuptials of two dear friends.

First, there was the small matter of convincing Ofer that it would be safe for him to go. He “only” has an Israeli passport (quite a few Israelis, if they can, have one from another country–the country of their parents or grandparents–which allows them a little more leeway if they wish to visit Muslim countries). But he received a personal invitation from Ali’s family. Ofer and I had met Ali’s parents during their month-long visit to Tucson nearly two years ago. Metin was a career soldier in the Turkish military and participated in various exercises with the Israeli military over his 30+ years of service. He’s even been to Jerusalem and the Negev. He was thrilled to meet Ofer again and discuss Israel, which was nice to experience after months of hearing how terrible Turkish-Israeli relations have gotten. But that’s politics; this was people.

The first evening was “henna night.” This is typically also a “hen” night — ladies only — but due to language barriers, and the sheer number of people who showed up from all over Turkey and the world for the wedding, this custom got dropped by the wayside.

Henna Night

Turkish henna wedding rituals are built around the tradition that a daughter leaves her family when she marries. The mother and other female family members dance around the bride-to-be, singing sad songs, and eventually rubbing henna on the bride’s palms so that, in the weeks to come, the stain will remind her that her family thinks of her and misses her. As the bride’s palm is stained, so too are her mother’s fingers, and they are connected through the memory.

That wasn’t exactly what was happening in this case, so Ali was henna-palmed too. And at some point, I ended up holding the “henna cake.” This looks something like a small birthday cake, only the “frosting” is pure henna heaven.

Neither Ali nor Misha knew exactly what was happening at any given time — it’s been years since Ali has been to a Turkish wedding, and never his own, of course, much less a henna night — and this led to some confusion and translation bouts. Translation rounds went as such: Misha would ask Ali what was happening; he would ask his mother (who speaks only Turkish); she would tell him, he’d tell Misha, Misha would tell her mother (who speaks only Czech); Misha’s mother would ask a question; and the rounds would begin again.

We danced, fingers-snapping, the Turkish way, shoulders-bumping, as Ali’s mother put a henna mark on Misha’s hands and Misha’s mother did the same to him.

I’m having difficulty remembering when this picture was taken – did this dance happen before or after the vows? Who knows. Events occurred in an order we weren’t used to: We were served hors d’oeuvres before Misha and Ali had even arrived at the ceremonial/dancing/food hall, and thus were munching away when the bride and groom-to-be strolled in under the white balloons, past the violinists, and into the spotlight. They danced their first dance together as not-yet-husband-and-wife, then took their places at a high table, to oversee the feast.

At some point during dessert, a robed woman came to sit at their table, soon to be joined by one of Ali’s friends, who spoke English, and Misha’s sister and brother-in-law, Lukas. The judge received a microphone, and the ceremony began. First, a few vows in Turkish. Ali’s friend translated these to English. Then Lukas translated them from English into Czech. And so on. At one point, Ofer leaned over and joked, “Shouldn’t they translate it into French, like at the UN, just to make it official?”

(Side story: I got a little confused by the plethora of languages myself. At one point, I began speaking the little Czech I knew to a Turkish gentleman sitting next to me, and I just could not understand why he was having difficulty understanding me. Ofer still teases me about this.)

Strangely, as the vows were being said (and translated), the diners continued to eat and talk. Misha’s Czech friends and I looked around, appalled. We began to “shush” people in our best teacher voices. (The gentleman to my left had the good sense to look abashed!) Following Ali’s and Misha’s confirmations — “Evet. Yes. Ano!” — the ceremony ended with a giant “POP” of a confetti grenade. (The first picture; what you do not see there is Lukas’ face of absolute surprise!)

Then came the dancing. The live band graciously allowed the Czechs to play some polka (the Czech national anthem got thrown in at some point, too, I believe). Then Ali’s cousin and another relative stole the show by performing a gorgeous dancing duel, apparently imitating a great hero from the Aydin region’s (western Turkey’s) past. I have to admit that I thought they were imitating a crane bird. Either way, it was thrilling.

A Dueling Dance, Ankara-style

At some point, the Czech contingent decided to surprise the bride and groom – and everyone else – by “accidentally” dropping a plate especially decorated for the couple on the middle of the ballroom floor. For the first time that evening, the hall fell silent. The waiters, eager to help, ran for their brooms, but the Czechs – Irena, Martina, Lukas, et al. – held them off, laughing, and handed Ali and Misha a dustpan and broom to sweep it up themselves: their first act as husband and wife. A Czech tradition.

You can see that Irena is hiding the dustpan behind her back. Love it.

Capping the evening, the driver hired to cart all the non-Turks to and from the hotel provided entertainment of his own. First, as a dual taxi-driver and flower-shop-owner, he stopped to get us all our own flowers (boys and girls alike, no gender bias!). Then, he played dance-floor music, and made sure to get the beat going by tapping his foot on the brakes, causing the van to bounce rhythmically. Finally, he stopped to get a “drink,” and returned with beers for the guys…and himself. Beer in one hand, cigarette dangling from the other, he made sure we didn’t leave Ankara without some excitement.

Chai drinking on the Bosphorus

Next stop: Istanbul.

Ofer and I spent nearly five days there, the first two mostly sleeping. It had been an eventful weekend.

Congratulations, Misha and Ali!

Mobile World Congress 2011, Plaza de Espana, Barcelona

This past week, Ofer and members of his company were in Barcelona for the Mobile World Congress, where they could show off their main product, name dialing (“Imagine a world without phone numbers”). Ofer managed to finagle me a pass to enter and wander around with all the tech geeks. My brilliant questions included the following, at the Google App stand: “What, exactly, is an App?” The girl laughed until she realized that I was serious.

(Now that it’s been explained, I still don’t understand why I would pay to have an App when I can just open another tab in my internet browser. But considering I’m one of the few people who uses her phone simply for making phone calls, I’m obviously not representing the market.)

Google’s mobile operating system (the software that runs the machine and enables other applications to run, in non-techno-speak) is called Android, and the company took full advantage of this at their “stand” (if you can call the entire corner of a building a “stand”). They also happened to have the youngest, hippest crowd of employees, who would occasionally turn the music up and start treating the hall like a disco. But since their “stand” came equipped with a slide and lavalamps, I don’t think the organizers minded too terribly.

Google Android "App" Stand, complete with tube slide and smoothie bar

Most stands had signs with slogans, mostly along the yawn-inducing lines of “changing the face of technology,” but I giggled at “get sticky” and “quietly brilliant.” There was a company called “CBOSS,” which had hired suspiciously young-looking models to wear small pieces of fabric and prance around on a stage to get the attention of all the suit-clad geeks wandering about.  It worked. When I first walked by, I could hear jaws dropping and cellphone cameras snapping. You can see them in action (and read a tech geek’s commentary) here: The CBOSS Girls. Oh, did I mention it is a Russian company?

Just to give you an idea of the tensions of being Israeli at an event like this: Ofer had some interesting experiences with gentlemen from Saudi Arabia, Qatar, and so on. They would come to visit the stand (which was not near the other more obviously Israeli enterprises), begin a conversation, notice the accent, glance at his name tag, and then casually ask, “Where did you say you were from again?” Ofer: “Well, me, personally, I’m from Israel. But I get along with everybody.” Happily, the response to this was a laugh. (Not that anything would really happen at an event like this, but camaraderie is always a good thing.) Another member of his team, the designer, speaks fairly fluent Arabic, and was chatting with several Kuwaitis. When he told them that he was from Israel, they asked, “So are you Arab-Israeli or Palestinian?” (Needless to say, he is the third type of Israeli/Palestinian – a Jew.)

The following day we took a long-overdue holiday. Ofer and I have been to Barcelona before, and seen the Gaudi and the Gothic quarter. This time we decided to head up to Montjuic and swing by the Fundacion Joan Miro modern art museum.

Joan Miro, "Halequin's Carnival," 1925

Sadly, the painting above is not part of the collection; I found it on Google images. I say sadly, because it is vastly more interesting to me than those we encountered in what we came to call the “fart museum.” Most of those were like the one below, which our 4 Euro audio guide described as “a sea of gold broken up by a blue cloud that refuses to let the gold conquer all” or something along those lines. Ofer and I were listening closely, trying to answer the question “What makes this art?”  Our guide continued, “There is a black line through the painting, ending with a figure on a chair.” And the recording ended. Ofer: “Is this a guide for blind people?”

Joan Miro, "The Gold of the Azure"

At one point, I noticed Ofer staring just to the left of a painting. He was looking at a security installation in the corner, which was, as he put it, “much more interesting than the paintings.” Despite listening to our audio guide, we still had not gotten an answer to the question of what made this art rather than, say, interior decorating. After noticing the title of “The Gold of the Azure,” we began to suspect it had more to do with the names than the content of the paintings. Read the title of the painting below, and let me know what you think:

Joan Miro, "The Lark's Wing, Encircled with Golden Blue, Rejoins the Heart of the Poppy Sleeping on a Diamond-Studded Meadow," 1967

I had great fun at the museum, but as I said to the woman who collected our audio guide, not necessarily for the appropriate reasons.

Wow. What a moment. I am surprised, really, that Mubarak stepped down, considering his defiant speech yesterday — “The Pharaoh Refuses to Go” — and the military’s support of him. Cynically, I feel that the army’s leaders and Mubarak’s second-hand man Suleiman pressured Mubarak; what we’re seeing here is not regime change, yet, but a change in the name of the leader. But still. The government didn’t crack down on the people the way Iran did the summer of 2009. This has been a largely peaceful revolution. Exciting!

I’ve been obsessively reading and watching clips on the protests going on across Middle East, cautiously hopeful that the changes we’re seeing will be for the better, both for the people within those communities and those, like ours, who live alongside them. The atmosphere here in Israel is a little tense, though, because people do worry that a new government would not honor the 1979 Egypt-Israeli peace agreement or that chaos and/or an aggressive, Islamist regime (like that in Iran) will replace the ones we have now. Of course, what we’re seeing right now is not regime change, but a shift of leaders; the political structure remains in place. And unlike the Islamic Revolution of 1979, this revolution does not have one particular leader, nor have the Muslim Brothers taken as big of a lead in the protests as many thought they would. In any democracy, the Muslim Brothers are going to play a part. It’s good to keep in mind, though, that the Muslim Brothers are not one united, coherent entity: there is a range of opinions among its proponents.

Two interesting articles on them:
Tariq Ramadan, “Whither the Muslim Brotherhood?” (NYTimes)

Jonathan Halevy, Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood, in their own words (Jerusalem Center for Public Affairs)

Go democracy!

* * *
Dear Family, Friends, and Colleagues,

As many of you know, but some of you will not, I have just returned stateside from Cairo where I spent the past week and had the opportunity to witness and participate to a certain extent in the beginning of the current Egyptian uprising. While my pictures and video were, unfortunately, confiscated by the Egyptian Mukhabarat, the secret police, I kept a journal in which I recorded my firsthand account of the events that I witnessed during my time there, stretching from the first moments of the uprising until I was evacuated by the US state department. Some of my account will sound familiar. I am sure other parts of it will be new information.

I feel that it is important to distribute this account as information regarding those first days is sketchy at best, and I feel that it is our responsibility to get as much information about the events out there as we can.

I strongly encourage you to forward this to anyone who might be interested.

-Josh

Tuesday, January 25, 2011 – Cairo, Egypt:

It began as a normal day. I had arrived in Cairo for some much needed rest and relaxation, a chance to take my mind off of the stress of waiting on PhD decisions, visit some old friends, and brush up on my Arabic. With political crises still seething in Tunis and Beirut, the region was awash with tension, as tense as I had seen it in my three years living there. It never entered my mind that of all the cities I intended to visit, Cairo would soon be the most volatile.

It was about 3:00 in the afternoon, and I was scheduled to meet my Arabic tutor in a café next to the old campus of the American University of Cairo, right in Tahrir (Liberation) Square. As I turned onto Talat Harb street, just a block or two away from the square, something immediately seemed different. I was greeted by the sight of police cordons blocking off the street to traffic, and what seemed like a small group of people milling about in the street. The shops all appeared to be closed. I turned to a shop keeper and asked him what was happening. “A demonstration,” he replied to me, “Against corruption and the government.” I was immediately taken aback with shock. In Egypt, demonstrations are rare and most often staged, and to put the word “corruption” in the same sentence as “government” in the public discourse is both dangerous and almost unheard of. I pressed the shop keeper for more information, and he told me that the demonstrations had been organized on the internet, Facebook and Twitter, he told me. Aware that this was no simple gathering of people, I crossed the cordon in order to see what would happen next.

As I walked down Talat Harb street, I saw that I was heading for a group of perhaps 100-200 people milling about in the street. As I joined a group of bystanders on the sidewalk, a single thought tickled the back of my mind, “Today, we witness history.” But the implications of what was beginning to unfold in front of me were still unclear.

The first thing that struck me about these protestors was who they were. While a barely functioning Egyptian civil society cannot currently be said to support a Middle Class as we understand it here in America, this group was undoubtedly the closest thing to it: young men and women, mostly university-aged, dressed largely in western clothing, chanting slogans for Democracy and Freedom. It was clear to me that this was a truly popular, pro-Democracy demonstration, and to my growing surprise, state security officers (henceforth ‘police’), while slowly growing in number, merely controlled the sidelines, following, not driving the crowd, who had taken up the chant “hurriyeh” (Freedom) as they began to march toward Tahrir Square.

Before I knew it, I found myself shuffled into the square with them, and I took a position on a raised median in the middle of the square, on the north side of the traffic circle near the museum, next to a growing number of people taking pictures with small hand-held cameras and telephones. What had begun as a relatively empty square was quickly filling with demonstrators converging from downtown (east), the Nile cornice, (west) and the north. To the south, towards the Interior Ministry building, police forces were gathering in number in full riot gear, and more soldiers were arriving by police truck by the minute.

The stage was set, all the actors present, but the intentions were still unknown. The demonstrators approached the police with a growing boldness, holding signs with pro-freedom slogans and chanting “freedom” and “democracy” and waving Egyptian flags, but they soon became more blatantly anti-regime: “Down with Hosni Mubarak” and “Down with the government.” A group of young women sat down right in front of the police line. But despite the growing boldness of the demonstrators, it was still the chant of “Selmiyyah” (tranquility) that governed the conduct of both sides for now. While this was developing, I found myself with a front-row seat, on the raised median right between the opposing lines. My camera had not taken a rest since my arrival in Tahrir.

Now, the international media reported that a crowd of protestors attacked and attempted to hijack a water-cannon truck; however, they failed to detail the events leading up to this. From where I was standing, it was undoubtedly the police that initiated this first escalation. For an hour, security forces moved with the crowd, containing them but allowing them to gather, advance, and retreat at will. But suddenly their strategy appeared to change from containment to dispersal. The water truck in question, at this moment located behind the police line, rumbled to life, and as it began to inch forward, the water cannon opened up, spraying a jet of water at the demonstrators. I had to make a hasty lateral retreat to ensure that I stayed dry as the police line parted and the truck began to roll towards, and into the crowd, passing me by perhaps 20 yards.

Without police cover, the truck was soon surrounded by demonstrators and was besieged by bodies, bottles, and rocks. From about 75 yards away, I could only watch as a man climbed on top of the rocking truck and began striking the water cannon. Almost immediately, he was grabbed from behind by a man who had followed him to the top of the truck and threw him, like a rag doll, off the top of the truck and into the crowd below.

This was the signal that both sides had been waiting for. Riot police armed with batons rushed the protestors surrounding the truck in the first clashes of the day. But the entire event had been spontaneous and poorly coordinated, and the limited group of police found themselves surrounded and outnumbered. Like a Spartan legion, they grouped behind their shields and attempted a hasty retreat, using their batons against protestors as they surged forward towards the line of police regrouping at the south end of the traffic circle. What struck me, though, was the continued (relative) restraint shown by both sides despite this escalation, and cries of “Selmiyyeh” continued to rebound off of the walls of Tahrir Square.

As the police regrouped in preparation for another possible clash, a new chant sounded from the crowd, or perhaps more correctly, from a newly arriving group of demonstrators advancing into the square from the direction of the Nile and the Arab League HQ building. The chant was “Allahu Akbar” (God is Great), and this marked the arrival of members of the Muslim Brothers. According to state media, the Muslim Brotherhood was responsible for the organization of the protests, but the protests had been well underway by the time they arrived, and my own experience corroborates the official position of the organization, that they would not participate in an official capacity, but their position would be to support the protestors. I saw no evidence of any attempt by members of the Brotherhood to steer the demonstration or the protest or the discourse towards an Islamic theme.

The police began to advance up the square until they controlled about half the traffic circle and the mass of people prevented them from moving any further. Behind the cordon, I saw police with grenade launchers stood ready. On the other side, a makeshift stage had been erected and occupied by men and women holding megaphones and leading anti-regime chants. Once again, as luck would have it, I found myself with a front-row seat for what was about to unfold.

To be honest, I am not certain what, exactly, led to the first gas canisters being fired by the riot police, but as the protestors continued pushing against the riot shields, the *whump* of the launch was subdued but unmistakable. The pop of the canister and the hiss of the gas releasing into the crowd was more pronounced. *Whump* *whump,* two more gas canisters were fired into the crowd, one directly at the stage, hitting its mark directly, and at once, the crowd began to disperse, running away from the fumes.

To this point, the police had concentrated their efforts and arms against the demonstrators themselves and left the bystanders relatively untouched. Once simple event changed this. Another gas canister landed in the square, between the stage and the police line, probably 50 yards from my position. As this was the fourth or fifth canister, the area of the square was already relatively clear. But in what might have been an image cut directly out of the weekly protest of Palestinians against the Israeli government and the separation wall, a young man, clad in jeans, a tee shirt, and a black and white checkered Kuffiyeh wrapped around his face rushed the canister, grabbed it, and hurled it directly at the police line. His aim was perfect and the riot police began to flee. In truth, the police displayed more panic than the demonstrators.

This proved the limit of the authorities’ tolerance, and the restraint dissipated in a cloud of confusion and tear-gas. The police began firing gas canisters indiscriminately at protestors and bystanders, attempting to clear the crowd at all costs as the line of police began advancing north, into the square, intent of clearing the square. With my camera in hand, I decided it was high time for me to leave before gas turned into rubber bullets or worse.

As I turned to leave, I suddenly felt two strong pairs of hands grabbing me from behind. I spun around and found myself face to face with two men in plainclothes. After countless travels in Egypt and the Sinai, I realize that I am staring into the faceless face of the Egyptian Mukhabarat, the dreaded secret police/Egyptian intelligence. One grabs my camera arm while the other, holding me firmly by the shirt, starts pulling me south, in the direction of the police forces and further away from my planned escape.

At this point, only one thought echoed through my head, “YOU CANNOT LET THEM TAKE YOU,” my second thought for my camera and the hour of footage contained therein. As I tried to rip away from the two officers, I screamed “American! American!” It half worked; in vain I tried to maintain my camera, but as I broke away, or more accurately was let go, one final tug broke my grip on the camera as one of the officers gave me a hard stare and said “You go NOW!” I was free and did not have to be told I was in a dangerous spot. I turned and fled north, and as I did, I saw two more gas canisters land directly to my right and left, one no more than ten feet from me. Luckily, they had not yet gone off and I was able to put a good 30 feet between them and myself before I heard the telltale *pop* of the canisters going off. I cut a hard right and vaulted over the rail and down the nearest side street. My day in Tahrir was over; class was understandably canceled.

The gas cleared the square, but the threat of crackdowns did not keep Tahrir empty. While I was there, I estimated the crowd was easily in the tens of thousands. The masses returned that evening and held vigil all night, declaring an open-ended sit-in. Throughout the night, the marching and chanting of the demonstrators could be heard until the police moved in and once again cleared the square. The next day proved tense, with threats of zero-tolerance crackdowns coming from the authorities across state television. As I sit and write this, the protestors have once again taken to the street marching and chanting against the regime.

Thursday, January 27, 2011:

A sort of calm has settled over Cairo this afternoon, but there is no mistaking the undertone of tension, uncertainty, fear, but also excitement. Despite the crackdowns of the past 48 hours, the movement shows no signs of weakening. In fact, the opposite appears to be the case, with promises of new protests set for tomorrow after Friday prayers, with the potential to draw vastly larger crowds, not merely through Facebook, but mobilized through the mosques. The protestors have made their goals crystal clear: nothing less than the removal of the current regime, directing their ire against the figure of the President, his son Gamal, who many see as the leader-in-waiting (and also one of the heads of the ruling National Democratic Party or the Hizb al-Watani), the Interior Minister, leader of the feared state security forces, and at the regime in a more general way.

There is no hiding the fact that the Egyptian people view the government as they did on the eve of the 1952 revolt against the monarchy: entrenched, corrupt, and self interested. The major difference is that in 1952, it was the army that overthrew the monarchy; today, the protests are coming from the people themselves. While in Tunisia, the army stepped in to support the people, the position of the Egyptian army, the true powerbrokers behind the state, is still unclear.

Our painfully under-qualified and uninformed Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton, has come on television and announced her continued support for the “stable” Egyptian regime. The choice of words is unfortunate as is her position. Perhaps a better choice of words would have been “entrenched,” but the Egyptian street believes that America has abandoned them, and her words have done major damage to America’s image and the goodwill that Obama’s Cairo speech had generated within the country. Egyptians ask me, “Why do America and Barack Obama abandon the Egyptian people; we only want freedom, we want the same thing America has, why is that so wrong?”

So far, the demonstrators have come from the Egyptian middle class, which is highly educated (across Cairo at any one time there are at least 700,000 university students, perhaps significantly more). These people are increasingly secular and liberal, and as levels of education have risen, so have demands for more freedoms. But another storm is approaching, one that may unite this small middle class with the millions upon millions of uneducated masses, for whom the basic necessities of life are significantly more important than abstract concepts of freedom and Democracy. And as the price of basic food supplies such as meat, grain, rice, and sugar have doubled over the past few years, while simultaneously real wages are falling, the masses will eventually react if the government fails to intervene. Already the masses have expressed their support for the protests, uttering vitriol against the government and their abuses that is identical to the more active opposition. Two groups within Egyptian society, with different complaints but the same antagonist. As of now, it appears these masses have remained on the sidelines, but we shall see how long this lasts.

Friday January 28, 2011:

The phones are down

The internet is down

The metro and buses are not running

A general curfew has been called for downtown at 4:00, and the street below my hotel balcony downtown is almost completely empty, except for a few groups of stragglers attempting to return home. We knew today would be chaos, but I am not sure the government was prepared for the scale of the demonstrations. If Tuesday’s protests in Tahrir numbered in the tens of thousands, today’s easily numbered in the hundreds of thousands, and that is not including Suez and Alexandria. As I write, the general curfew has been extended across the entire country, and in some cities, the army is moving to restore order.

Despite attempts to avoid today’s demonstrations by spending the day in a café in the southern suburb of Ma’adi, and despite the enormity of the city, avoidance proved, well, unavoidable. At some point I clearly had to head back downtown to my hotel. The first taxi got me about halfway until we hit a road we could not pass in the eastern side of the city. On the way, we passed a number of traffic circles blocked by burned trucks and police vehicles and piles of burning tires. After I was dropped near Manchea, close to the famed Cairo Citadel, I was lucky enough to find a station wagon taxi and a group of about seven or eight people who were going to attempt to travel back into town. The cab zoomed off and headed downtown along a route that would take us by al-Azhar and the Khan al-Khalili. We made it as far as al-Azhar University. This area, known as Hussein, had been the site of major demonstrations earlier that day, and as the sun set and night fell, protestors continued to occupy the streets and overpasses, and the show had not yet cleared, or perhaps more accurately, was still being deployed.

Our cab had come to a stop by a partial police roadblock down the street, and it appeared the road was closed. But we saw a few brave cars drive around the blockage and our driver decided to follow, heading back towards al-Azhar Bridge and Opera Square, the location of my hotel. We made it just around a corner before we encountered a large group of people in surgical masks moving towards us yelling to us “Turn back, go back,” and “closed, blocked.” Looking down the road, it was clear why. The riot police had taken control of the road and were methodically clearing the street, pushing the protestors back by firing teargas and advancing up the street. As we rounded the corner, my eyes and throat began to burn, my nose watered. Riot police continue firing a steady stream of teargas up the street. This was clearly as far as we could go. The rest of my journey back to the hotel was by foot, a jumble of back alleys and side streets. I was lucky that a young Egyptians man, 20, took me by the hand and offered to take me back to my hotel. I know Cairo well, but not the maze of back alleys.

The unrest is spreading and things are clearly spiraling out of control. The protests are gaining momentum. No one is so deluded into thinking the President has any popular support, but fear and isolation, the most powerful tools of a repressive government, have previously kept opposition at a standstill. Today’s events have sent a clear message to the regime that the people of Egypt are no longer afraid. Demonstrators are calling on the armed forces to join with the people in Egypt, just like they did in Tunis, as the tanks begin to roll into Cairo. The police are beginning to equivocate. This afternoon state security forces were withdrawn from the city of Alexandria. In Cairo, there are signs that they are reluctant to continue engaging the protestors.

Demonstrations in Cairo continued to escalate throughout the day, beginning at the end of Friday prayers. Tires and cars burn across the city.

10:00 pm, Tahrir Square:

A German staying at my hotel asks if I would like to attempt a walk down to Tahrir Square. I agree, grab my passport, and we depart the hotel. Despite the curfew, many people remain in the streets and the police seem calm. As we approach the square, two police cars are on fire, painfully close to the Egyptian museum. Across the street, behind the Museum, a large building is on fire, black smoke is pouring out of it. This is the headquarters of the NDP, the national ruling party. The demonstrators in the street point and cheer. The occasional bangs of tear gas canisters echo from the walls of Tahrir, along with a new sound, sharper, more pronounced. Have the police begun using rubber bullets? I cannot see and no one has any information for me.

Near me, a crowd has gathered atop something, the atmosphere is festive. As we approach, I see it is an Armed Personnel Carrier, abandoned by the police and occupied by demonstrators as a trophy. They are attempting to break inside. Suddenly, there is a noise in the opposite direction, a growing yell. I turn and see a small group of masked protestors running towards us, yelling for us to run, to get away. Suddenly my eyes once again begun to burn, then my nose and throat. I can barely see, barely breathe. The commotion grows, but this time I am better prepared. My experience on Tuesday reinforced the need for a pre-planned route of escape, and I quickly grab my friend and bolt up a side street, the same one that facilitated my escape earlier in the week. The escalation continues. Egyptians keep asking me when Obama and America will help them.

Despite the curfew, thousands remain in the streets, chanting against the government. I speak with some of the demonstrators. One of them tells me of his motivations. He says his main complaints are financial: he talks about drastically rising prices and simultaneous falling wages. He worries that soon he will be unable to feed his two children, or even shelter them as his rent also rises. He tells me the government’s income continues to rise, as does the money coming from America, but that the people have not seen any of it and taxes continue to rise and the people are seeing less and less in terms of services and aid.

The protestors show signs of growing coordination. Attempts have been made to take over NDP party headquarters (before it was burned), as well as national television. I am familiar enough with the concept of revolt in the Arab world to expect these developments; the demonstrators are taking the old playbook, perfected by Syria and Iraq in the 1950s and 60s. While the internet has rendered these actions largely obsolete, the government’s is able to block the internet and flood state TV with mis-information and propaganda.

Tanks have begun to roll into the capital, greeted by the protestors as potential liberators. No signal yet as to the intentions of the army.

12:30 am

President Mubarak just gave an emergency address to the nation. He declares that he has heard the cry of the people and will address it immediately. He promises to dismiss the current government (in an Egyptian context this refers to the council of minister or the cabinet), indirectly acknowledging that recent elections have been universally considered fraudulent. The extent to which his promises will be kept shall immediately be called into question. The people do not believe he will act and recognize that even if they do, a cabinet reshuffle will replace Mubarak cronies with yet more Mubarak cronies. No members of the opposition will be included, mostly because there aren’t any. But it appears that tonight, the protestors have gotten their point to the government, which is now unable to ignore the demands of the people. This does not bode well for Gamal Mubarak’s chances of succeeding his father.

The people have heard promises before, and they have proved empty. I do not expect these words to be enough.

2:30 am

I am drifting off to sleep when I hear the first shots ring out, more of a pop than you hear on TV. I count about ten, then hear screaming and moments later, more shots. I leave my room and head down the hall towards the common room and the balcony. Two workers at the hotel are sitting on the floor in the far corner, and when they see me, they frantically motion for me to get down and be quiet. More shots, closer this time, right outside of the window. I get down on the floor and crawl on my hands and knees to where they are sitting. More yelling. Muhammad, one of the hotel workers, says to me, “The police are shooting! Killing! Dead in the street. Anyone in the street, he runs away and they shoot him in the back. I saw one man right now, I swear to Allah, shot, dead, he has no gun, nothing.”

The shooting has stopped and we hear screaming from below. Slowly, Muhammad creeps to the balcony and opens the door; we inch forward and look to the street below. There is a small crowd, maybe seven people, hurrying about a car. They pick up an unmoving figure and try to load him into the backseat. There is blood everywhere, and I see he is still bleeding. One of the men below shouts at the driver to go to the hospital, another shouts back, “What hospital, this man is dead.” We peer further out, to the sidewalk below. There is a large pool of blood on the sidewalk, and drag marks, like you see in a bad horror film, going out onto the street. I force myself to look further, down the sidewalk, and see more evidence of the carnage that is unfolding below me, pools of blood, and a line of bloody footsteps corresponding to the stride of a seriously wounded man trying to flee. There is no more sign of his fate.

More shouts, not angry or panicked this time, but authoritative. I look in the other direction and see two policemen marching up the street, yelling and the men below, their hands on their weapons in a threatening gesture. My companions grab me and pull me inside, shutting the doors and the scene unfolding below. One is crying. “Why?! How many have to die for one man? These are my brothers, our brothers. Mubarak just said the people are the country. They are killing Egypt.”

He begs me to call my embassy, to tell the Americans what is happening, to tell the world. I tell him I will call and I promise to him that I will tell my story to anyone who will listen. The girl on the phone sounds like an intern. Some college girl clueless as to the reality outside of life in Garden City, the location of the US embassy. She seems completely disinterested as I tell her I just witnessed someone get killed. She feeds me what I imagine is a canned response:

Stay indoors

Obey curfew

Confirm your travel plans

Don’t do anything stupid (Yes, she actually said this to me)

“Oh and for more information, state.gov will be issuing a travel warning soon on the internet… ooh, that’s right, you can’t get access to the web, can you?”

Then comes the best part:

“We at the embassy hope to see everything calm down in a day or so, so just stay put and we hope you will be able to enjoy the rest of your visit to Egypt.”

I just watched someone get murdered by the police, thanks lady.

So much for “I have heard your cry and shall respond to your demands.” Well, at least Hillary Clinton is “very concerned.”

January 29, 2011:

The demonstrators are back in the streets today, but things are different. The police are gone, withdrawn overnight as army vehicles, mostly tanks and APCs have entered Cairo and taken up positions in sensitive and strategically important areas: Tahrir Square, government and military buildings, bridges, and major streets. These locations remain gathering points throughout the day, but were, for the first time, not a place for confrontation. The army has been received with great jubilation, seen as protectors finally arriving. Scenes of people following the tanks with shouts of support, and even demonstrators hugging and kissing soldiers repeat themselves throughout the city.

The fires have slowly gone out, but the charred remains of police trucks and tires testify to the violence that occurred here. But the army has refrained from escalation or even real engagement with the demonstrators, and things remain peaceful for now. Out of the aftermath of the violence, a new problem rears its ugly but inevitable head: looting. Shop windows are smashed and everything is gone. Jewelry and electronics stores were the first to be targeted. Even in areas relatively unscathed by the demonstrations have fallen victim to looters and street gangs, notably the tranquil suburb of Ma’adi. Even as the army secures the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities, it is too late. Broadcasts show smashed display cases and statues. The extent of the damage is not yet known. The lesson from the invasion of Baghdad and the subsequent destruction of their national museum makes me fear for the legacy of Egyptian history.

Once again a curfew has been imposed, this time from 4:00 pm until 8:00 the next morning. But unlike last night, it appears as the majority will comply. State TV is stressing the importance of national solidarity and the obligation to prevent chaos and national disintegration.

In other news, President Mubarak has issued a rare decree, appointing Omar Suleiman Vice President. I am not sure the significance of this action is immediately appreciated by the Egyptian people. Suleiman, the head of Egyptian intelligence and a major figure in Egyptian foreign policy, is not a significant figure within Egypt. As a military man, he prefers to stay in the shadows, but he is undoubtedly a strongman of the regime, and despite public belief that it will be Gamal Mubarak who replaces his father as President, in academic circles it is widely thought that it will be Suleiman, in name or in practice, that will succeed the current president. And with the unequivocal rejection of Gamal Mubarak, Suleiman, at a spritely 74 years old, is now the overwhelmingly obvious candidate-in-waiting. Mubarak’s decision has created the framework for the continuation of military dominance in Egyptian politics and the perpetuation of the current system. I do not imagine the people will accept this decision or even really acknowledge it as a step in any direction.

Despite my initial optimism, shots again ring out tonight. I cannot be sure what motivated tonight’s violence, but it seems that with the absence of the police, law and order is truly beginning to break down. While the past few days have, at least in some way, felt familiar due to my studies of revolt in the Arab world, I think that now we inevitably are entering uncertain territory. Events could turn in any number of directions. One thing is for sure, with even the food supply insecure, I have no desire to remain here. I will leave for the airport in the morning.

January 30, 2011 – Cairo Airport 10:00 am:

As luck would have it, I have been able to book a seat on a flight out to Paris early tomorrow morning. The airport is a zoo, thousands shuffle back and forth, trying to get into the terminal, trying to get out. People are fighting for positions in lines to book flights. Very little is open, it is not easy to get food or water, and basic services appear suspended. The terminal looks as if it has not been cleaned in days. There is garbage and half-eaten food everywhere. 20 hours until my flight departs. Time to dig in and wait.

January 31 – February 1, 2011:

Flight delays and cancellations litter the board at the airport. At about 12:30 in the morning I find out that my 7:00 flight has been cancelled. Two Americans I sit with had booked a flight out on KLM at 4:00 which has been taken off the board, with no information about whether it was canceled or delayed. The only flights seeming to depart without too much interruption are the Arab carriers, apparently little phased by the chaos. The Europeans are not so lucky.

I have been at the airport for 15 hours when the first bit of good news comes my way. After days of equivocating and running in circles, the State Department has decided to begin evacuating US citizens from Cairo, chartering flights to friendly countries in South Europe: Cyprus, Athens, and Istanbul. With so many flights canceled, the evacuation is my best option, so I push my way through the crowd, which has thinned overnight as flights have left and have been canceled, and make my way, with another group of Americans, to the private VIP terminal.

As we pull in, people are already milling about, perhaps a hundred or so, and it is not long before more begin to pour in. By the hundreds, tourists, ex-pats, students, and “non-essential embassy personnel” begin arriving, at first in taxis, but after a while, in charter buses, cars, and diplomatic Suburban caravans. Everybody wants out and embassy personnel promise that everyone will be accommodated in order to prevent unrest as the crowd gathers and grows.

I find myself standing in a group with a guy and girl about my age. The guy, an ex-marine, arrived in Cairo on Wednesday to “Participate in the Revolution.” But like me, the events he witness on Friday and Saturday shook him enough that he decided to leave as well. For him, the romance quickly gave way to the brutal, ugly reality. He tells me of his experience in Tahrir on Friday night, perhaps just an hour before my own, and of witnessing a crowd of Egyptians overwhelm a French-Israeli and drag him away. He does not know of this poor man’s fate, but fears the worst. With the breakdown of law and order, I suspect he is correct and what he witnessed amounted to a lynching. Everyone is finding ways to blame Israel. No wonder people cannot solve their own problems.

As we wait, we exchange stories of our experiences, filling in each other’s blanks to reconstruct as best we can the events of the past few days. The State Department has made it perfectly clear that, as this is an evacuation, we may only bring what we absolutely need, one carry-on and one bag. As a traveler, I am ok, but as students begin to arrive, it is clear that many did not get the message. People have three and four suitcases with them. Some have even brought their dogs. Embassy officials announce this luggage must be consolidated into a single bag. Everything left over will most likely never be seen again. Nor will the pets be accommodated. I hope they will at least be taken care of.

Finally we get moving after signing the necessary forms. My friends and I find ourselves on the second flight going to Athens. As we are shuffled through passport control, and board the plane, a wave of relief washes over me, a feeling, for the first time, that I have made it out with everything, including this account, which at the moment is my most valued possession. As our flight takes off, I am comforted by the shouts and applause of the other passengers shedding their tension. While my trip home has just begun, my journey is finally over.

I recall the promise I made to Muhammad to tell the world of what I saw, and I have every intention of keeping this promise. For while I am safe, comforted by the shouts and applause, I have left many brave people behind who deserve nothing less than their freedom, and their story must be told.

In the U.S., we’re right-side aficionados. Side-walks, streets, we all know which side to move off to when someone needs to pass by.

In Britain (and various former colonies), it’s the left side. Thankfully, they are nice enough to write “LOOK LEFT” and “LOOK RIGHT” at appropriate places on the street for tourists. Though I’ve still managed to get confused when walking through a crowded Tube tunnel.

But in Israel? It’s as though I’m playing a game of basketball. If I feint left, they go to my left, if right, then right. Everyone seems to pick opposite of what I expect. I’m surprised I haven’t had more than the three or four crashes into individuals than I’ve had so far. Good thing my brakes work. Tamar’s advice: “Deliberately run into them sometimes. They’ll learn.”

I have also come to the conclusion that the majority of people, in Tel Aviv at least, do not look when they walk. Sometimes not when they bike, or drive for that matter. But the walkers…the number of people who stare at the ground or into the sky when talking on cell phones, listening to music, and otherwise not paying attention to the fact that they might get run over, is really boundless.

I think I need a louder bell.

If only this new punk on the block lived closer. I hear he’s already got a taste for heavy metal and rock-n-roll. Plus, he’s got my brother’s dimples.