مرثية محمود في محمد محمود

محمود المصري"

مات من لا يستحقون الومت

"لأجل من لا يستحقون الحياة

(مستشفى الميداني بمحمد محمود)

مرثية

غضبان

وجاني صوت

من قلب قلب...الموت

غضبان وبيعاتب

يا قلبكم

وعرفت إسمه

من قلب قايمة...أسامي

كذبكم

مع إنكم

قاتلينه...إنتو

بصمتكم

سلطان

يوسف حسين

يا نجمتين...ضي من قلب السويس

يا فرج...ياعويس

يا كل الشهدا...يا ولاد بلدي

يا ناقشين سعادتي..بدمكم

إكمنكم

أصدق

وأشرف مننا

طول عمركم

......

سير يا نسيم الصبح...نار

ما تهدي

وأعصر جراح...قلبنا

لفلف ودور...في البوادي

وإحكي حكاية عمرنا

طفي النور يا بلدنا

يا بلدنا طفي النور

وأمضغي صبرك يا بلدنا

يمكن...

نهب...نثور

نفرش عضانا نهار

تتحني بيه...وتمدي

سير يا نسيم الصبح

نار ما تهدي

السويس، يوليو ١٩٦٩

الكابتن غزالي

Why a bloody Cease-fire will never work! هدنة إيه؟؟

On thursday night as matters continued to escalate, the lines of central security forces multiplied (a sight i had not seen since last year), the tension in Mansour mounting, eventually the dull bang of tear-gas shots, the vespas, the ambulances, the sirens the young men carried unconscious, it was time for that difficult point in every Mohammed Mahmoud. Convincing my grandmother she had to leave.

Living in falaki has meant her ability to be at the heart of the revolution, constantly reporting the movement of baltageyya from Abdin; nudging her neighbour Esmat, and armed with their vegetable shopping sacks (allibys for when they are caught by the army/CSF -depending on phase of the revolution-and escorted home) as they investigate the scenes of the crime.

By night-fall it was clear she would not be easy to convince, and by midnight, the challenge became not to convince her, but actually make it to her apartment past mohammed mahmoud.

We spent the night with her, and perhaps more difficult than managing the adrenaline and the tear-gas on the back ends of the battle-field, and more frustrating and heart aching than follow events from afar, was actually hearing everything unfold, without actually being part of it.

The shooting was almost endless from the moment we made it up to her apartment a while past midnight, till around 11 am, when we found the right moment to evacuate her.

The sounds of the constant tear-gas shots, and the emptier clang of rubber bullets, with the occasional sirens was not unfamiliar. Nor was the metal clanging and echoing chants that trickled through the thickest clouds of teargas and grew louder and louder until they rocked your very being. This time last year the battle was clear, this time this year, listening to it in a house where you could only wait, breathing minimally, for the teargas to settle, listening intently, willing the chants to pick up again, it was terrifying...

It wasn't only the sounds of the insistent firing that shook me, but the realization in the intensity of the chanting, the resilience despite loosing count of tear-gas shot per minute, that this was not ending anytime soon.

On the 28th of January, and after we defeated the CSF forces in almost every governorate in the country, the ministry of interior (and thus the entire police state) evacuated. They imagined they would punish us. Instead, it made of that uncertain moment of upheaval, a revolution.

The popular committees sprung up to protect popular institutions, manage local communities, organize traffic, and continued to develop socially and politically governing us through our revolutionary statelessness.

As the police trickled back, and the power balance was negotiated - they returned as police, but not a state - they were monitored in several communities where they returned. In hadaye' el qubba, Police men who were drug dealers were filmed and shamed, reported to human rights organizations and the ministry of interior incessantly till they were changed. In Boulaq, thousands staged a sit-in minutes after a woman was harassed by a police-man in the local souq. Within an hour of the event, the officer in charge of the station had to make a public apology.

But our days of upheaval were numbered, as 'order' made its way back, straightening out all those wrinkles where we experimented with new forms of governance, accountability, and keeping the state, in all its forms in check.

By May police men were threatening families of martyrs; in a 'popular conference' in Imbaba families came up to speak of the various threats made to them. Some were threatened with their lives, others with those of their remaining children, the luckier ones, who had stronger cases against members of the ministry of interior were offered money, apartments, cars, for their silence.

One farcical court session after another, it was clear that the people who had made the greatest sacrifices to liberate themselves from police-oppression; their flesh and blood; would still be the ones to pay the biggest price. They lived the lives most difficult negotiating space and livelihoods under a police-state, gave their lives to have their families live free of it, and continued to live in terror and oppression, under both the military and police state.

THat night at my grandmothers', and in those moments (literaly moments) when the firing stopped, a lone voice would start chanting against the cordons of security before him. He would start with the government; 'Ya hukuma ya weskha...ya m3arassa..' ; You dirty, pimp of a government...

Then he would move on to the soldiers, giving each of them, a clear and detailed state of his mind, and how he saw them.

My initial reaction to the taunting was that he was clearly provoking them. That this would never end. I whimper for him to stop, lest they start shooting again.

But by the next round of taunts i saw it differently. He wasn't taunting them. He was finally face to face with the bastards who killed his brother, his father, his neighbor or his cousin. Or those who, before the revolution, framed or implicated him in a drug deal he had nothing to do with and kept him in prison for months. Or those who tortured him for years on end in a prison cell for a crime he did not commit. Or those who raped his father for daring to stand up to them, when an officer slapped an old man in the middle of his neighbourhood.

ALl the instances i had myself heard or been exposed to of people arrested, framed, jailed, incarcerated, tortured, for no reason - not that any can ever justify- flashed before me. And for a very brief moment, i would want to burst out into the balcony, not to shout at him to stop and step back, but to scream in his same direction; Aywa 7okuma weskha! Aywa 7okuma weskha!!

On what basis do we expect this to stop?And what the fuck are we negotiating??

That parliament 'CONVINCE' the police and central security forces, to please stop slaying us publicly and return to their standard practice in every neighborhood in the country?And knowing fully well that from time to time, when the neighborhoods are too tight, and the prisons are full to the brim, that they can move on to larger massacres in stadiums???

The ministry of interior has never been as criminal and audacious - the killing is now public an the victims of cold blooded murder - QATL 3AMD are down to 13 years of age!!!

And we, as activists and politicians, expect a PEOPLE that have risen in REVOLUTION against a BLOODY police state, to sit back and watch things unravel, waiting for us to 'EMBARRASS parliament' into taking some sort of action?

The one thing that happened simultaneously in all of Egypt on the 28th of January (naturally earlier in Suez, where the state has lost its primacy ages ago) was that the police stations burned. We haven't been able to ascertain whether this happened from 'inside' or 'outside' the stations, but the one thing no one doubts is taht we all put a happy penny in it.

Delirious, and half panicked, i asked a man in Alexandria, why the fuck we were setting all the police stations on fire? "Isn't this a revolution for dignity? One against humiliation? And would you deem it wiser to leave the capital of ultimate humiliation spared... wala burn it, and put an end to this forever..."

We all have issues to settle with the dakhleyya. On events such as these the anger will be wide-spread, and it is clear to everyone that the issue is not with the police-stations, but the ministry of evil itself. And that is where we will all head. Not only demanding justice for those who died at this moment, but for every moment over the last 50 years experienced under its rule. People will come down to shout, to roar, to taunt, and to let it know, that this revolution is only big enough for either of us.

To think we can demand a cease-fire and that this would end the bloodshed, is pushing the problem even deeper. Because the police will return to their practice unseen, until it is time for the next big massacre, or until people decide they can take the blood, and incarceration no longer.

And then the issue will be much larger than the throwing of stones, and taunting of officers.

We grew up a generation under an emergency law, and we rose against the police-state. What's happening in Mansour, is a revolution cotninued. We either heed it, and demand this end now, or we throw ourselves in a perpetual cycle of violence, of a police-state raging to stay in power, and a people who will take it no longer. What stability, peace do we anticipate without justice?

LIke everything that we need to do now, the solution has to be revolutionary. A detailed plan (that we already have) for the restructuring of the ministry of interior. And a shadow ministry composed of those who carried this revolution through, to make sure this happens.

Under what political will you ask? Under ours. Why the fuck are we still asking those we rose against to change their ways?

أجيال عاشت حياتها في ظل قانون الطوارئ. كفاية.

25th of January, 2012. One year on, we're even stronger

For the days leading up to the 25th of January, almost three weeks before it, my mind kept wandering between the first few days of the revolution, and the months that followed; reflecting particularly on all those personal moments tucked in the corners of my memory in full scent and flavor.

There's always little space to remember. Because all of us have so many memories. Yet, there's little space for nostalgia with so much to be done, and with that sense of responsibility both towards yourself - everything you promised yourself this revolution would be at the beginning of it; and every oath you took upon yourself when you saw someone get shot, counted a body in the morgue, or sat with the family of a martyr. Those responsibilities weigh heavily upon most of us.

Most of my most poignant memories are memories of feelings. A sense of conviction and purpose that completely overwhelms fear; a moment of fear that overwhelms any sense of logic or rationale; a strong sense of acceptance (and peace with) the possibility of death; an overwhelming sense of love; and a powerful togetherness. With each of these feelings is an instance, trembling with fear in bed, chanting amongst a sea of people, pumping your fist next to someone you love, breathing through tear-gas, making new friends in a protest, phone-calls with families of the missing that drag for minutes or hours, even when there is nothing to say.

On the few days before the revolution the memories cascaded before me like a constant reel of film, some i'd forgotten, some reproduce to dwell upon, and some i'd never forget, though i wish i could.

And yet somehow, yesterday all the nostalgia faded in the strength of the marches that overcame the experiences of all those before them and fulfilled the promise, the hope, and the yearning for a continued revolution. Ofcourse it continues :) And ofcourse we celebrate the power of our togetherness.

After days of intense dilemma, as to which march we'd join, Yahia and i had narrowed it down to four marches (the dilemna started with two) the night before the 25th. I usually feel marches are strongest and most exciting in populous areas, and Yahia felt they made most sense when we are with people we cared about. So that narrowed it down to Shubra (where started on the 25th last year), Imbaba (where we had friends and worked closely to the popular committee), Maadi (where we lived and thus had a sense of responsibility to mobilize), and Mostafa Mahmoud (where 'everyone' was going to be).

We finally decided to start with Maadi, hop to Imbaba and meet up with Mostafa Mahmoud; what better way to celebrate the 25th of January, than march-hopping :)

We started with the Maadi march at ten am, where hundreds were already gathered, including my parents, my aunt and my cousin, donned stickers, and debated what we should do with #SCAF whether we want power handed to parliament, or presidential elections first, and chanted after passerby's in cars that would pop out to lead us.

We started the march through Hassanein Desouky, Ahmed Zaki and 3arab Maadi in general, and within minutes, it was difficult to make out the beginning of the march, and we were no longer near the end, as we were when we started.

There is something to be said about starting a march from where you live. To explore the geography of your community on foot, to take over the roads, to have a sea of people fill the bridges and spill into roads and alleys, to see windows and balconies full of people adn to interact with everyone. It's like things are turned inside out. Time stops, the chants make the discussion general and inclusive, and you start discussions despite age or gender or class or any barrier that usually hinders one. Like barriesr are temporarily suspended as the space we occupy is somehow, completely shared.

It makes it easier for people to join a protest and roar opinions since there are many of us; and those in doubt can stop and think for a while...or they can ask.

Cab drivers took stickers and fliers from us and stuck them on their windows, and shop owners cheered us on. We did occasionally get the growl, but it was much less than any other time.

We then spilled into midan saweras, and up the maadi bridge, as we marched up and reached the peak, we saw below us the sea of people that was the march come from Helwan, raising their flags of resistance high.

Our spirits soared and our chants echoed through maadi as we joined forces, and made our way out to the corniche.

We walked all 17 kms from Maadi on the nile, through corniche el maadi, el malek el saleh, masr el adima, el manial, qasr el einy and garden city. We were mostly cheered by public buses, truck drivers, taxi drivers and workshop owners. People waved their flags from balconies, and except for one person who waved us dismissively, almost everyone i encountered was supportive. We got prayers, thumbs up , victory signs, people joined in chants, or promised to join us at night when they didn't hop on.

There were many many families in most marches i imagine, as the revolution is , as always, a family affair, but there were also many children under 5 in stickers and flags,and pig-tails, pumping their firsts and chanting along, especially to ' yasqut yasqut 7ukm el 3askar; ehna el shaab el khat el a7mar' - "Down with military rule; we the people are red lines..'

I imagine that this is a 'feast' or anniversary or occasion like no other. Most occasions we celebrate are in remembrance of one event or other in history whose significance wears with time, but we still celebrate in ritual or need of family warmth. But this is different. This is in (not remembrance) but actual celebration of something we ourselves 'established'. That is our coming together as a people, our power over any system we hire to rule us; and our refutal or those who come to power without our permission.

Every year on the 25th of January, we will come out, with newer generations, and they will continue the rituals, not because they need to make sure they remember. But because to them, this is a reality they were born to, and a ritual that makes perfect sense. They will come out (at least) once a year in millions, where all barriers will be suspended and all our 'public' spaces will become joined spaces, and we will chant and sing, our discussions and disagreements and agreements.

We will get excited as we march under bridges and tunnels, raise our voices high so they echo around us and fill us with strength. We will chant loudest when we are on top of bridges and in alleys, when we know our echoes will ripple throughout the neighborhoods we are in, and shake the insides of every house, reminding those who thought not to leave them, how strong we really are. No matter where you are on the day, at home, in bed, on the streets, in a march, in a shop; the chants will ricochet around you, so they become your reality. We the people are a red line, egypt will not be ruled by a military, we will not forget the blood of our martyrs, there is, in fact, a revolution in each of Egypt's streets.

Last year 'thawra thawra 7atta el nasr, thawra fe kul shaware' masr' ; "a revolution in every street in Egypt" may have been more of a call; this year the chant was a celebration, a celebration of the existence of the revolution in each of Egypt's streets.

We finally made it near tahrir, on its very outskirts, and the front-lines stopped the march to announce that there was no way tahrir would encompass our march, the beginning and end of the sea that we were were difficult to make out, and the square and its surroundings were already full to the brim. Qasr el nil bridge before us, was a sea of people itself. We imagined it must be another march, that perhaps once it passed and assimilated into tahrir there would be more space for us. Within minutes however we realized that it was not a march; but a spill over from tahrir. Downtown, was completely jammed with all its squares adn bridges.

The revolution has outgrown tahrir by far. Tahrir became that space we knew we'd meet. It became the space we went to, to think, to create that imagined community, that alternative we all dreamt of. It became the space where we practiced and experimented with different forms of organization, rule and co-existance. But now those spaces exist in each of our neighborhoods, through the popular committees, and other countless initiatives and forms of activism.

Tahrir was a symbol, and a centre we needed to hold us together. It will always be that symbol; but this revolution has been one that has constantly chipped at our whiffs of nostalgia. There is little space for nostalgia when there is so much work to do. And when every point is more glorious, invigorating and emotionally saturated than the moment that preceded it.

Every past revolution and past moment is remembered with the necessary criticism. ANd every win is overwhelming at the moment it is made, even when we tend to bring our wins apart, as if that is the only way to remember that we still have far to go.

We do have far to go, our dreams and ambitions cannot be encompassed by any square, individual, party, and words and verses constantly fail us. But we, as a people, have not relented for a moment since this time last year. The struggle has rippled and multiplied in every street and neighborhood and every house.

We argue and disagree as to the extent of how 'radical' or how 'revolutionary' or 'reformative' or 'peripheral' or 'relevant' all the different battles are; but the truth is this; they are all battles, individual, collective and communal, they are all groups of people that have gotten together to roll their dreams out and fill their lives with those possibilities.

Egypt has become a sort of theater. We are still in that relatively suspended realm where we can be anyone we want to be. We experiment with different forms of ourselves, with different dreams, and different friends and different ideologies, and we experiment with all the different ideas of what Egypt could be like. We test our dreams against all our different realities. In some instances they are tainted and we take them back, and in others they rub against people and magic and grow and multiply and extend until they are beyond our own imaginations.

That we have kept this up, this sense of possibility, this sense of agency this sense of peoplehood, that this momentum has multiplied, that we now have all these choices of what to do and who to be and how to continue the struggle, is breathtaking to behold.

There is so much to celebrate. That i can step down and join the revolution downstairs is one of them. That the dream is shared by so many people i know and don't know is another. That i don't have to trek out all the way to Tahrir to dream up the alternatives is yet another. That i find it very difficult to express myself in english as opposed to arabic, is a personal other :)

The revolution is everywhere. The revolution is all of us, and the revolution is each of us :) The sense of responsibility is layered and multiplied yes, but so is the amount of magic, possibility and hope that rises up like a tide and envelops us, every time our fears and anxieties threaten to overwhelm us.

We won't ever forget, we no longer need to fear that. Now let's celebrate who we've become, and take the struggle further, nostalgia and squares, and centers aside :)