Ashraf Khalil - Liberation Square: Inside the Egyptian Revolution and the Rebirth of a Nation

This book is dedicated to my mother, Hoda Ibrahim Aboleneen, who should have lived long enough to read it.

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book never could have been written without the direct and indirect assistance of more people than I could possibly thank.

My wife, Rola Zaarour, patiently supported me as I disappeared into a cave for several months, encouraging me during moments of borderline despair.

My father, Omar Khalil, served as a tireless one-man research divisionconstantly suggesting new themes and topics, catching my mistakes, and re-reading the manuscript almost as many times as I did. My brother Hani Khalil provided moral support and a window into the realities of the publishing industry.

My old friend Natasha Ghoneim served as a guardian angel who just might have saved the entire project. When my wife seriously sprained her ankle with a massive deadline looming, Natasha basically moved in with us to help care for her and to buy me some space to write. Natasha, Rola, and Hani also took turns as my overseas proxy tweeters during the period of the revolution when the Internet was shut down, so many thanks for that as well!

My agent, David Patterson, nurtured the idea from a mere seed to a fully formed proposal and helped smooth over a million little bumps (and defused one or two writer-tantrums) along the way. My editor, Yaniv Soha, patiently coached me through more than one blown deadline, and the entire team at St. Martins Press handled their duties with professionalism and astonishing speed.

I owe them, and many, many others, my sincere and heartfelt gratitude.

Nathalie Atalla, the marketing executive who is quoted in chapter 17, died in a car accident about two months after we spoke. She left behind two young children. My condolences go out to her family.

AUTHORS NOTE

A Note on Transliterations

Moving between Arabic and English spellings is a mystifying process with no set rules. With transliterated names, places, or chants, I have used my own, somewhat instinctive, system designed so that the word will read as phonetically close as possible to its accurate pronunciation.

With formal names, I have tried to keep to a basic template of al-Name as in Kasr al-Nil Bridge. Any variations from that templatesuch as Mohamed ElBaradei or Maha Elgamalreflect the specific preferences of the people involved as to how they spell their names in English.

PROLOGUE

Cairo Burning

It was January 28, 2011, just before sunset in Cairo, and the tide had dramatically turned against President Hosni Mubaraks police state. Mubaraks once-fearsome band of bullies was being openly hunted in the streets surrounding Tahrir Square, the epicenter of a burgeoning revolution.

A day of increasingly violent street battles had seen tens of thousands of protesters confronting the forces of Central Securitythe ground level shock troops of Egypts monolithic Interior Ministry. A response that started with riot shields, wooden batons, and water cannons had long since escalated into massive tear-gas barrages and the indiscriminate use of buckshot. The protesters, in the face of such violence, temporarily abandoned their signature cries of salmeya (peaceful) and responded with their own storm of rocks, concrete chunks, and, eventually, Molotov cocktails.

The combatants in Cairo had no idea what was happening in Alexandria or Suez or any of the hundreds of revolutionary battle zones that day. There was no Internet and no cell phone servicea final desperation move by the government to choke communications and blunt the mounting waves of public anger that threatened to sweep away Mubaraks twenty-nine-year rule. All they knew was what they could see, and what they could see was hundreds of Central Security cadres standing between them and Tahrir.

It was sometime before 6:00 P.M. Tear gas still lingered acridly in the air, and blood spattered the asphalt, which had been gouged and broken up to create fresh projectiles. The protesters on the Kasr al-Nil Bridge, bolstered by waves of newly arrived reinforcements, had succeeded after a four-hour battle in at last cracking police lines.

Everything changed in that moment. In the streets surrounding Tahrir Square, it was now open season on anyone wearing the signature black Central Security uniform.

Ahmad Abdalla, a young film director, crossed the bridge in the immediate aftermath of this victory. He found a scene of bloodlust and revenge. The Central Security cadres that hadnt yet fled had apparently been left to fend for themselves; they were outnumbered, terrified, and viciously targeted by enraged protesters.

Some people were ready to eat them alive, Abdalla recalled. There were still a few paddy wagons roaming around. But anytime one would appear, it would immediately get surrounded and pounded with rocks.

Many of the protesters had already been driven half crazy by the violence of the dayand by the twenty-nine years that had preceded it. But mixed in with that rage, there was also a crucial undercurrent of sympathy. Central Security was an easy and natural target, but it wasnt the real target. The underfed and undereducated rural conscripts who made up the regimes frontline cannon fodder generally had had no choice in the matter. As much as any other Egyptian citizen, they were victims of the Mubarak regime. In different circumstances, many of these same soldiers would have been fighting on the side of the protesters. Violently defeating them was a necessary evil, but they were not the real enemy, and even amidst the chaos of the day, many demonstrators on January 28 kept that fact in mind.

As triumphant protesters streamed across the newly liberated Kasr al-Nil Bridge, a Central Security transport truck filled with soldiers emerged from a side street and came flying down the Nile-side Cornichethe broad multilane avenue that lines both side of the Nile. Apparently seeking escape, it didnt stand a chance; protesters immediately surrounded the vehicle in front of the Nile Hilton Hotela venerable Cairo landmark that was closed down at the time for a massive renovation. Rocks struck the transport from all sides, causing it to shudder on its axles and lurch forward out of control. The panicked driver crashed hard into the concrete median of an entrance ramp to Kasr al-Nil Bridge.

Jubilant protestors scrambled on board. The driver was injured in the crash and in shock. Bleeding and weeping hysterically, he cried out, Just kill me. I dont want to live. The back door of the truck was jammed and about a dozen terrified and traumatized Central Security conscripts were trapped inside. There were protesters who clearly wanted to tear the conscripts apart.

But cooler heads prevailed. Abdalla and others extracted the driver and sat him down on a Nile-side bench, literally hugging the semi-coherent man to both console and protect him from other protesters. With the main door jammed, young demonstrators conducted a brief negotiation with the trapped soldiers, speaking through the vehicles rooftop hatch. Eventually a compromise was reached: the soldiers would be allowed to leave unmolested through the hole in the roof. But there was a condition: they would leave behind their black Central Security uniforms and walk away clad only in their government-issued underwear. The standoff ended amicably (and the Central Security uniforms and equipment made great souvenirs for several dozen protesters).

They told the soldiers, Were not going to let you out unless you take off those clothes,Abdalla recalled. It wasnt exactly a fair negotiation.