The Curfew

In late May and early April, 1992, Los Angeles residents experienced rioting in the wake of the Rodney King verdict. Looting was widespread and arsonists' flames seemed to pop up on every corner. The LA police force was not prepared for the huge scale of the civil unrest, and so Mayor Tom Bradley called in the National Guard, imposing a dusk-to-dawn curfew. The ferocity and widespread nature of the riots, combined with the extraordinary decision on the Mayor's part to impose a curfew, scared the hell out of a lot of residents accustomed to a relatively easy pace of life and the rule of law. I know. I was one of them.

I remember vividly the troops deploying in the neighborhoods experiencing the worst of the violence; armored personnel carriers disgorging thousands of helmeted, battle-ready soldiers, weapons locked and loaded. The men in uniform had orders to fire on anyone engaged in looting or arson. It all scared the living hell out of me; none of these kinds of things ever happened in Ohio, my boyhood home.

I was 26 years old when the riots occured and frightened as I was, I had some semblance of style; style that was about to be cramped by the imposition of an evening curfew. In the evenings I wanted to be out with friends to see and be seen. I certainly did not want to be cooped up in my tiny apartment. On the first night of the curfew, zombified after having watched live news broadcasts for most of the day, I went to bed early-ish.

I awoke early the next day naively planning to go to the bank and do a little grocery shopping. Looking back, I really do not know what I was thinking. Young and dumb is an excuse only up to a certain point, after which the person in question is just plain dumb. And on the second day of the curfew, that dumb person was me. I drove to the bank first. The bank was absolutely packed with people, frenzied customers rushing each of the harried tellers, angrily demanding to withdraw as much money as possible. I had never witnessed a run on a bank. "So this is what one looks like," I remember thinking to myself. The grocery store was worse. There I saw hoarding of the first magnitude, shopping carts careening through the aisles with some customers randomly scooping items into their baskets.

With no fresh supply of money and no groceries, I returned home, passing a couple of military checkpoints along the way. I felt like the fabric of society was ripping apart. For me, that second day was the worst. Fortunately, calmer minds prevailed throughout much of the LA Basin, and the curfew was lifted after just five days.

The Egyptian curfew, my second experience with such a thing, is now two weeks old, having been imposed by the interim government as a measure to deal with the "anti-coup" protests. Nearly a thousand people have died in the past two weeks, and the government really does not seem to want this kind of bloodshed to continue; they also do not want a Syrian-style civil war. To the government and the military leadership supporting the government, a curfew seems a good option to allow for things to simmer down a little.

I have to say that I agreed with that option for the first few days. When interim president Adly Mansour announced the curfew, I felt a keen sense of relief. Being 47 years old, I no longer possess any style, and so an evening curfew fairly well fits into my ordinary evening routine; or so I thought. Style or no style, after a two weeks of being in by 7:00 p.m. every night, I am now very tired of the curfew. I feel limited and confined. I cannot even go out for an evening stroll for fear of being stopped, questioned, and probably arrested.

But it is not all about me. The curfew is slowly killing an already anemic economy. Depending upon who you ask, the Egyptian unemployment rate is currently hovering somewhere between 13% and 20%, and it is rising. Like many cultures shaped by an arid climate, Egyptian society is predominantly a late night culture. Late meal times help famlies to avoid living in stifflingly hot houses during the heat of the day. It is not uncommon for Egyptian families to have their main evening meal at 9 or 10 p.m. This is also prime time for local restaurants and cafes, not to mention grocery stores and supermarkets. All of the economic activity that accompanies a late night culture has now been shut down for the most part, and local businesses are considering shedding jobs in the wake of seeing their business decline by 50% to 75 %.

On August 24th a small miracle happens and local officials, sensing a rapid decline in support for the anti-coup movement (and perhaps also responding to recent news articles about the economic impact of the curfew), announce a relaxation of the dusk-to-dawn travel ban. Shops, restaurants and cafes can remain open until 9 p.m. One of our friends comes over for an impromptu, celebratory dinner. We eat and chat, joking about our newfound two hours of relative freedom. After the meal, we walk our friend back to his flat. It is the first time we have been out of our apartment after 7 p.m. in over two weeks. Call us silly, but we feel as if we have just won a major struggle to enhance our civil liberties. I cannot help but wonder whether Egyptian nationals feel the same way.

* This week's photos courtesy of Dana Purpura