When I arrived in Cairo in late April to work on a documentary about Egyptian storytellers, the country was frantically charting a new course.
On February 11, after 18 days of relentless protests, the Egyptian people toppled Hosni Mubarak and his 30-year rule. He has since been indicted on corruption and premeditated murder charges and his National Democratic Party, which many blame for the country’s economic decline, has been dissolved by court order and its assets — including 30-million Egyptian pounds — have been nationalised.
The party’s imposing headquarters, set on fire during the revolution, resembles a corpse, haunting the view of the Nile with its charred, detestable body. Summoning a taxi that would take me to the trendy Zamalek neighbourhood to meet a property broker who was offering a production office for our crew, my eyes darted around for other signs of change. In the heart of bustling downtown Cairo protesters had rechristened Mubarak Station the “Station of the Martyrs” – well before an official court order in May to change place names and remove all images of their former leader.
Yet the first aspect of change brought up in initial conversations had little to do with hard politics. Our local production assistant, a thoughtful 32-year-old, suggested that rather than make a film about “art and the revolution” we should make one about “love and the revolution”.
While in Berlin on a journalism internship in 2009 he began a relationship with a Dutch journalist and she had visited him a few times in Cairo. They were getting closer. But the revolution has taken its toll. Admitting that he could appear silly or closed-minded, he explained that it was important for him now to explore both himself and his country with a fellow Egyptian who had lived through the same history and experienced similar emotions at Tahrir Square in January — someone who would now face the same future. He pinned it down to identity and pride.
Throughout my time in Egypt youth puffed with pride and enthusiasm about what it means to be Egyptian — and commerce was not left behind.
In the boutiques of Zamalek I found bracelets with Ana Masry — “I am Egyptian” — inscribed, plastic pouches covered in the Egyptian flag, solidarity bracelets and mugs emblazoned with images of actor Omar Sharif and singer Om Kolthoum. Restaurants and shops have re-branded their shopfronts with the historic date of January 25, which also appears as a faux numberplate on many of Cairo’s cars.
In Dahab a hotel receptionist, while filling in the details from my South African passport, exclaimed: “Here in Egypt we have 80-million Mandelas!”
But this may prove to be a double-edged sword. At numerous lunch conversations companions noted the absence of a single visionary leader to unite and direct the country. Mohamed ElBaradei, the Nobel laureate and former director general of the United Nation’s International Atomic Energy Agency, was on the lips of many people at the beginning of the revolution, but has since attracted a fair degree of criticism. “Weak” is how one Egyptian colleague described him, citing several incidents that allegedly reinforce his “out of touch, self-exiled” status.
Real improvements in the economy — largely in free-fall since the revolution — jobs, genuine freedoms and justice for crimes committed by the Mubarak regime are on everyone’s mind. The new Parliament and president, scheduled for September and November elections, are expected to lead the process of drafting a new constitution, the blueprint for a post-Mubarak Egypt.
Throughout my two-month stay many young people reiterated the view that the January revolution should be seen as “only the beginning” and, depending on how things turn out, a second revolution might be in store.
In everyday conversations and in daily newspapers, people seemed passionately engaged, scared, hopeful, conflicted and enlivened by the many questions still hanging in the air. They spoke about the future role of the army (which has ruled the country since February), the fear that the interests of the old regime will continue in new guises and the role of religion in public affairs.
The army played a positive role in protecting protesters during the revolution — a friend still marvels at how people curled up and slept within the wheels of the tanks at Tahrir. Yet many of the corrupt former leaders now being criminally charged also come from among its ranks.
I met a human rights activist who is documenting the army’s alleged act of “sanitising the revolution” by cleansing the square and white-washing the more potent graffiti in other parts of Cairo that emerged in January and February. This, she argues, constitutes a move by the army to manage people’s overall expectations. It also illustrates the army’s bid on official accounts of history that would present them as a primary role player in the revolution.
Meanwhile, whereas some argue it is appropriate that Islam be reflected in governance, provided that political parties are elected to power in free and fair elections, others contend that parties inspired by Islam, or any other religion for that matter, pose a threat to a stable and egalitarian democracy.
If in the past people were politically repressed or just ignored national politics, it was clear that many are now committed to playing their part in political life and rebuilding their future. But, as one friend put it, fatigue and ambivalence could creep in, especially if employment opportunities and real change do not follow.
Yet the spirit of revolution seems intact. In our last week of filming thugs shut down an artists’ gathering on the square, heckled the minister of culture and forcibly prevented our director from using his camera. They maintained that the martyrs who had died in the revolution should not have their memories polluted by art, music and performance.
One of the artists caught in the fray, a well-respected theatre director who is working on a theatrical rendition of testimonies from the families of the martyrs of the revolution, said that although he was disturbed by the troublemakers, this incident reminded him simply to continue doing exactly what he has been doing every day for the past 30 years: wake up each morning and make political art, knowing that in difficult times one is often “condemned to action”.
It is such action — exploration, debate and expression — that needs to be given as much freedom as possible right now.
Shameela Seedat is a former Fulbright scholar who worked as a researcher for South Africa’s Constitutional Court, a policy analyst for Idasa and a legal consultant to Unifem. She is working on a documentary directed by Emmy award-winning director Francois Verster