Longread
The Arab revolutions changed the lives of a whole generation – those who are now in their 30s and 40s. But it also had an impact on those who were children in 2011. Those are the ones shaping the political conversation on the streets and online platforms now. How are they still being impacted by this moment? A conversation between two witnesses.
We are Wizza and Inaam Hanim, two Egyptians who belong to a young generation that witnessed the Egyptian Revolution from behind T.V. screens. The Egyptian uprising in 2011 – the so-called Arab Spring – is a movement that sprouted in our hearts, but whose promises, like dangling fruits, are yet to be reaped. Some would say we are just homesick. Firstly, we would say whoever loves freedom must be constantly homesick. Secondly, we believe that the emotions traced here are not unique to young Egyptians; we hope that anyone who experienced a revolutionary moment might resonate with them.
In this spirit we explored what the younger generation – a generation we belong to – remember of that revolutionary moment, and what lasting impacts the revolution has on them. We spoke about it with each other on the backdrop of Wizza’s interviews with seven young people. Around the 25th of January 2011 these people were between 5 and 13 years old. Rana was 5, Ahmad was 9, Salma and Malak were 10, Ibrahim and Noor were 12, and Sama was 13. The interviews are the starting point for our discussion.
Wizza: “I was 13 years old when the Egyptian revolution took place. I left Egypt when I was 18 years old. I remember at 18: “It was a moment when every good change in Egypt seemed unattainable. The decision to leave, for me, was a matter of life and death. I was a teenager when the revolution happened, I experienced big change, I lived two years in moments of some sort of freedom. But in 2016, the mere existence of this freedom was denied. ‘I later realized that I could not take it anymore.’ I recall about arriving to Europe, ‘My body urged me to leave this situation, and I left for Europe shaken, holding on to the fact that violence, and suppression of freedom is insufferable. I was carrying many questions, and lacking the energy to answer them, I was simply exhausted from all the violence. I came here (Europe) and started trying to survive.’ ”
Inaam: “I was preparing to leave Egypt at the revolution’s 4th anniversary. I left Egypt behind, full of hope that everything is possible. Tahrir said so, and so it would be.”
Glancing At What One Has Left Behind
European cities, as destinations, hold many promises, as Amro Ali, professor of sociology and Middle East analyst, writes about arriving in Europe:
“(...) where the newly-arrived Arab suddenly (but not always) recognizes that the frightful habit of glancing over the shoulder – painfully inherited from back home – gradually recedes.”
One thing remains the same, perhaps; glancing repeatedly at what one has left behind.:
Wizza: “Whenever I went back to Egypt, I would resume the life I left in 2015. I would feel baffled, unable to move on, like others did, like others had to do in Egypt. As though time stopped for us. A lot of the memories of the revolution were systematically erased.”
Inaam: “True! I, too, want to understand where memory resides; where to look when the whereabouts is either nowhere, or morphs into a make-believe place. You and I realized our feelings could lead us. I think memory is faithful, it preserves itself beyond our own capacity to comprehend.”
Yet some forces work against it, as Ibrahim reflects:
“[the Revolution] is vacuumed out of my head, I don’t think about it.”
Memory is like bechamel, too! Stirring the stuff of memory – on medium heat, often ends up thickening it. Not stirring enough will end up clogging it, rendering it clumpy, unmoored. We became aware, however, that memory could turn into a heavy laundry bag as well; too heavy a luggage to drag around, labeled ‘Nostalgia to Despair.’
The Attempt To Break The Curse Of Ritualized Nostalgia
Wizza: “I remember that when I was in Egypt and would want to talk about the revolution, I would have to meet up with some friends in Cairo in the privacy of their homes, or I had to bring it up randomly with family members I trusted. Some would take it well, and look at it as a holy thing, and others would avoid it. There’s also a group that tends to believe that everything is a continuation of this past moment.”
Indeed, the urge to relive past glories quenches a human thirst within us, but the clock ticks on, and we are meant to tick along. Too often we’d be engulfed with sadness about Tahrir; the democratic breeze sweeping across the country. We tried to break the curse of ritualized nostalgia, we tried to break free from the ceremonial vivacity of the revolutionary moment; the triumph, the euphoria that rushed through our bodies as it was announced that President Hosni Mubarak was stepping down.
Wizza: “You know, I think this euphoria evolved later. Next to people glorifying the revolution, I noticed that – at the same time, my youngest sister Rana, who was 5 during that time, was developing severe anxiety, something I did not witness among any of my other siblings. It must have been a result of growing up in the aftermath of a revolution, that she did not know much about. I experienced her anxiety firsthand when we were a few years older. In 2021 my younger sisters Rana and Sara, 18 and 23 years old respectively, were visiting me in my apartment near the Cairene Downtown, where I was staying at the time. We took a walk from El Zamalek to Downtown, where Al Tahrir Square is located. About half an hour walk from Tahrir, in Al Gezira Street, Sara and I were careful about what we discussed and what we were doing. Rana on the other hand would scream – the last thing we needed in this situation. She shouted, full of rage, and with tears in her eyes: ‘aren’t we living in a free country; can’t we say what we want?’ as if she were asking for help, or confirmation about the value of free speech, which she deeply believes in.
Sara and I laughed a little anxiously because we could not justify our fear viscerally to her. Brushing it off, we said we can’t talk about this now. In my head I thought, ‘where would we start? Do I have to sit her down, and explain to her everything that has happened since 2011? And do I - the one who left Egypt - want to delude someone who has no other choice but to stay? At that instance, I understood the root of her anxiety.’ “
Ambiguity Of the Truth
In the quest to unearth this root, we not only got hints about the origin of Rana’s anxiety, but also about what we as teenagers of the 2011’s Egyptian revolution might still be carrying with us; about the impact of the revolution on us, and less so about the outcome. Personal traits or failures, like lacking energy, perplexity, or difficulty finding words, were symptoms of the big bang that erupted earlier in our lives, Ibrahim shared the same sentiment:
“sometimes when [the world] becomes so unbearable to the point where it’s hard to understand, you just stop trying.”
Similarly, critical mistrust towards circulating information remained after the revolution; as Salma confessed:
“truth is ambiguous, truth remains ambiguous as long as you do not see it in front of you.”
It appears that some bewildering fog blinded many of us, as though a smoke machine was in play. Both the fogginess and scarcity of words drew us back to the revolution’s orbit:
Inaam: “You called me, one day, ‘let’s make our project happen, we can say whatever we wish to.’. Thrilled, I replied positively. To me, it seemed like a new possibility to have a dialogue with a new generation, who – just like us– vividly remember something of that event. The event. Akin to the children’s game ‘broken telephone,’ where you whisper words swiftly in your neighbour’s ears and wait for the word to come back, I was curious what is left of the revolution. What does this younger generation know or remember; what have they heard of it amidst the mainstream’s loud cacophony? I was 14 years old myself and I remember a lot. What do those who were nine remember?
Not only are prior places of assembly completely refurbished, but also many faces are behind bars, or behind borders. Where do we go to remember? Revolution is like a faint careless whisper from the future. We wanted to listen in, what does she have to say after all?”
Wizza: “I beg to differ with you Inaam; I must say I never held onto the idea to do this search much, it felt cringe to me to work on a project related to ‘the revolution. ‘Rather, it was always people from the generation of the revolution who were most excited about the idea of the research. Z. and O. who took part in the revolution, both urged me to explore further. Z.’s main concern after the uprising was that nobody from the younger generation would hear about it.”
Where do we go to remember?
The Ghostly Remains of a Revolution
We wanted to explore the invisible remains of the revolution; how its impact lives on within and between us.
Wizza: “When I went to Egypt last year in October, amidst the news coming from Palestine, working on this project seemed out of place. And it was O. who awakened a sense of urgency within me: ‘Wizza, you must do it. All my generation – the generation of the revolution – is desperate thinking we are just a failure. You are touching on something important with this question of the invisible remains and impact of the 2011 revolution.
With that momentum I interviewed people in my vicinity. People were connecting me with others outside our circles. It was trust that kept us in a tight knitted network. I interviewed seven young people. My questions orbited around their memories, their affective associations with the revolution, how they see the future and whether they could find traces of the revolution in the current affairs.
I spoke with Salma first, now 23 years old. Salma and I met in my family’s house, a privilege since we’re both relatives and call the same village home. We sat on the bed, locked the door, made sure nobody could eavesdrop from the outside. The furthest part of the room to the door where we could sit was close to a duct, but she still made sure to speak assertively and loudly; she seemed to evaluate the situation better than I did. In the interview she mentioned how she is careful with information:
‘I have to see things with my own eyes in order to believe they are true. ’
She is usually careful to position herself in discourse. When I am angry with people in my family, I feel annoyed with Salma’s inability to state her opinion firmly, because in her mind there is always a place for suspicion even in her own perception. She describes this hesitation:
‘I would go to one family member and complain about the murder of members of the Muslim brotherhood and then he would bring up the murder of policemen, and say bad things about the Muslim brotherhood, and I would not be able to argue and feel confused.’ ”
Secrets Disclosed
Wizza: “I learned a lot about our family, things I didn’t know before. After over ten years, it was about time to disclose those secrets. I was, for example, flabbergasted to find out that Salma often went with a friend to the protests, and waited on the side until her friend was done chanting. In 2012, upon the death of a neighbour, she attended a protest in our village. I had frankly thought I was the person most attached to the revolution! I thought I was the bravest of the family. I migrated, broke a lot of rules, and – in a way – led a life completely different from the rest of my family. I guess I was wrong, the revolution inspires all of us in different ways. Salma kept repeating: ‘the revolution is coming.’ She said it assertively, and in a relaxed way simultaneously. I pictured all the images of what a revolution in our village would look like. The image burdened me, ‘of course it’s coming’ she insisted. Her insistence reminded me then of what Z. told me about Hannah Arendt’s theory of the sense of possibility; if people experience big change, they are more likely to believe it is going to happen again.”
Inaam: “As I listened through the interviews, I could feel a sense of familiarity in most of what was said: the fuss in the house people felt, their parents’ sense of anticipation, their confusion about who’s who. I remember being on the other end of the telephone line, with an uncle who mocked the protestors in Tahrir: ‘(..) the meals the protestors received from KFC must’ve been enough of a motivation to stay at the Midan, no?’”
Usual simplicities rendered a symbolic trace to something else, something more meaningful. Kentucky Fried Chicken became a symbol for foreign meddling in Egypt – speaking English as well – and merely being youthful; the young were guilty until proven otherwise.
Inaam: “My mum would storm my room and ask – in the plural form: ‘What do you all want? I want to understand,’ as though I and we and you are now one and the same. I feel a pit in my stomach when I talk about this.
Wizza: “Yes, yes! I felt it viscerally, too! In some ways, I relived it. My interview with Ibrahim was especially painful. When I told Ibrahim, now a 25-year-old person, about the research, he was so happy. I was surprised, as he seems cynical to me. We met in a flat where I was staying in Cairo. Thirty minutes in, the conversation turned bleak. His sadness and cynicism bore something of the current political and economic situation of Egypt.”
‘When people get killed, it is not like in movies, [the camera doesn’t] zoom on their faces. they just fall on the sideway.’
Pinpointing The Revolution on A Circle
Wizza: “I realized when I mention the revolution, people only think about 2011, which is usually a stalemate to our dialogue. I have to explain that I mean the events that followed, too. Only then, Ibrahim started to say more. He is an artist from a middle-class family, gifted with the ability to visualize things even in his words, I could see his pain in front of me. He recalled:
‘When people get killed, it is not like in movies, [the camera doesn’t] zoom on their faces. they just fall on the sideway.’
My head started buzzing, the sentence: ‘I don’t want to die this death!’ rushed through my head. I was scared, my body was hurting. Fear took over and it felt like with his words, the walls were dissolving and the memories and images of another uprising were visible in the background. I was in a flat alone in Cairo, and I thought: Oh my god, I might be attacked should it happen again. I felt a sense of insecurity, and although I despise the current situation in Egypt to the core, I was afraid of the damage it will take for it to change!”
Inaam: “Wow, I’m sorry! I had a similar realization as yours. We were nostalgic. In many ways we had romanticized this past moment. It was, though, not just a poetic adherence to a bygone moment that captivated us, there were also real, substantial, visceral concerns about our own security. A word heard on the streets of our exile city - ringing too familiar to the sound of home, and my heart would palpitate, racing to the nearest exit. We’d be a Mediterranean away, but trembling from news about disappearance, displacement, incarceration, threats to family and friends. All the scary stuff sifted down to a misunderstanding of a word, a deed, a photo taken in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Oh, how I wish I could reason with you, my love, my Egypt, even if you tread around me with suspicion.”
Speechless, Still
Wizza: “You captured my feelings; sometimes I would be paralyzed for days on end. One time I was editing the interview with Ibrahim next to my lover, who’s US-American, and I had to stop working because I became too restless. ‘We have to talk’ I said. They often tell me that I’m holding back. In the past, I used to try to explain to them where I, an Egyptian living in exile, was coming from and what shaped me. The events since 2011 are a big part of that. Sometimes when I think about it, I imagine an explosion. Yet I was still clueless about its impact on me. I would hold my lover, urge them to take a listen to Ibrahim, to say: ‘look, I am still speechless about it, but this person is saying something that would help you understand more of me.’ ”
Sometimes, in the face of novel circumstances, we become wordless. The silence is especially mute after we had a mouthful of words before, once upon a revolution. Ibrahim encapsulates this, recalling a statement he heard from a friend:
"all those mindless animals are speaking about politics now, even you!”
Lifeless, Mindless but Loud
The revolution is a time when volcanoes of speech erupt.
As though the Nile carrying silt from the south, blossoming into a lotus, pouring into the sea, the Uprising’s stream rushed. Language flowed, we gathered like beasts to drink, our lisped tongues swayed with words, with swear words, with melodic chants. The revolution is a time when volcanoes of speech erupt. Everyone speaks to everyone, to themselves, to the city. Haytham Al-Wardani, the Berlin-based writer, explores in his untranslated book Jackals and the lost letters, when animals speak in fables:
“it was in “Kalila Wa Dimna” that animals first spoke fluently, in Arabic, and their conversations came against the background of the social and political conflicts of the 19th century, with the Arabic language constituting one of its crucial fronts.”
We, too, discovered political discourse during the revolution, a time of social upheaval:
Inaam: “When dark times loom, and we feel the urgency of finding a solution, we – Egyptians - say: ‘even lifeless bricks would speak!’ I think that’s why my vocabulary grew at the time. I remember appropriating words such as: ‘cartoonish, deep state, ancien régime, ultimatum, arbitrary, technocratic.’ I realized now that we, as different generations, are linked. Music, poetry, vivid memories connect us. Oral history and feelings reach out in synapses towards a layered present, we all share. We excavate, questions overrun us, but we never run out of questions.”
The Power Of Feelings
Feelings truly leave trails behind them. By following and tracing feelings we yielded information about the future:
Wizza: “Even strange feelings can be a vehicle to do brave things! When I met Ahmad at a bookstore on the eastern bank of the Nile, I overheard him speak about taking part in a demonstration. He insistently asked another person roaming around the bookshelves to update him on ‘what happened on the streets today?’ Alarmed, the person denied involvement, but I was eager to hear more then. Later, after a couple more visits to his bookstore, I invited Ahmad home. We sat on the sofa by the balcony, looking over the Nile. It was a dusty day, and I was preparing to leave Egypt, thinking it was risky to interview someone I did not know so well. Hoping in a way I would leave Egypt safely.
Ahmad sees the generation of the revolution as hopeless. His pessimism is his impetus, however. Listening to someone speak poorly of the revolution was challenging, I managed to put myself in his shoes, though, and accepting his despair as a reaction to a revolution that did not last long, is also okay. ‘I’ll be full of regret if I missed another chance to be part of change.’ he alluded to his fear of missing out, one igniting his curiosity around the current minimal political room available in Egypt’s constipated political climate.”
“The Mushrooms Have Started To Grow, Tomorrow We Inherit The Earth” – Tayf by Mashrou’ Leila
Upon launching this project, we gathered our gadgets, collected our thoughts, asked here and there. We realized that by now – after 8 years of migration – we have a treasure; a network of people empowering us with studios, microphones, art, theory, edits, words, they even lent us their voices. We are deeply thankful for all of them. Truly, the I and the You and the We are sometimes one and the same.
Perhaps the thrust of revolutions obscures the slow but steady stream of all the branching creeks flowing towards the ocean. Still, water is destined to slow down at the estuary. At this backdrop other organisms are conspiring day and night to warrant themselves a place under the ebb of flow of clouds. Take Sylvia Plath’s mushrooms, how they erect, mushrooming out of the soil, out of the blue. Nobody predicts their rising before they pop out of the crevices and crannies.
At an event led by the Egyptian journalist Lina Attalla, someone raised the question of Egypt and Palestine, and what we should do. Lina said,
“Nobody knows, and we never knew what we were doing during the revolution, nor what to do. We did things though. And it is always good to do something. To follow where your bodies lead you.”
Wizza: “In that sense, I’m happy I interviewed Rana, my anxious sister, despite how brief it was. After having posed all my questions, she added,
‘you know what? I think about the division in society a lot. It’s a daily concern for me. I just never drew the connection of my anxiety to the revolution.”
Both authors of this article write under a pseudonym.
If you want to hear more stories about Egypt's young generation and the impact of the revolution on them, you can find two podcast episodes here in English and Arabic.
