Chimes of Freedom

What started three months ago with a bang - a loud "bang" during which hundreds and hundreds died - ended Tuesday with a cavalcade of partying. Egypt's three-month old military curfew has ended, and Cairenes are taking to the streets. This time around they are here to celebrate. Three months ago, Egyptian security forces backed by regular army units hammered groups of sit-in protestors at Cairo's al-Nadha Square and Rabaa al-Adawiya Mosque. Sensing that there would be major social unrest expressed as a result of this crackdown, the government under the stewardship of Adly Mansour and General Abdel Al-Sisi ordered a one-month, sunrise to sunset curfew to be imposed by Egyptian security forces. Over the course of the next few weeks, the curfew was moditified to relax those time constraints involved but was also curiously extended from one month to three months. Although security forces remain in place on the streets of Cairo, as of Tuesday, November 12th (2013), the curfew is a thing of the past.

Friday being the holy day throughout the Muslim world, the Cairo work week stretches from Sunday to Thursday. Thursdays mark the beginning of the weekend, and Thursday evenings are usually boisterous affairs. When we leave work on Thursdays for our walk home, we usually weave through streets congested with honking Fiats and ramshackle busses. We are invariably greeted by a couple of street merchants. One merchant in particular wears upon his back a mobile grinding apparatus designed to sharpen tools and knives. 

This Thursday is particularly boisterous as it is the first Thursday in three months where weekend revelers know that they can remain out for as long as they wish. I am just finishing my chaperoning duties at our annual school homecoming dance, so I am leaving school at 11 p.m. The street in front of the school buzzes with drivers and taxis waiting on our students as they depart. Other taxis - dilapidated Fiats as well as luxury, three-wheeled tuk-tuks - whiz by hoping to catch any fare that has not already made prior transport arrangements. One of the uber-luxurious tuk-tuks sports disco lights and blaring music - Journey's Don't Stop Believing. Almost 30 years after the song was recorded, it has become one of a couple of American "anthems" popular among tuk-tuk drivers in Cairo. Tonight's version comes complete with driver belting out the lyrics in a jocund melange of English and Arabic. As I shift my satchel over my shoulder and head home after a very long day, I cannot help but smile along with the jubilant driver. 

I walk further toward Victoria Square, one of the landmark squares in Ma'adi. Even from a distance, I hear honking, laughing and singing. The square is packed with noisy vehicles and raucous pedestrians. Traffic is going nowhere, but the drivers and their passengers do not seem bothered in the least. Music of every cadence imaginable is pumping from almost every one of the cars. Smiling Egyptians lean out from windows waving and singing. Street merchants bob and weave amidst the traffic, selling water and flags. One merchant is even selling life-size Daffy Duck balloons.  I duck the balloons (pun intended), zigzagging my way through the traffic. 

Success. Now I have only Port Said Road to cross. Like Victoria Square, Port Said Road is a partying parking lot.

I cross the busy street heading toward a knot of tea-drinking, off-duty drivers. They are laughing. All are smoking the potent cigarettes readily available at corner kiosks throughout the city. I can smell the strong tobacco. One of the drivers has his music blaring, although the song is unusual.

Tolling for the rebel, tolling for the rake
Tolling for the luckless, the abandoned an' forsaked
Tolling for the outcast, burnin' constantly at stake
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

It is one of those moments where I do not know whether to laugh or cry. On this occasion, I choose the former rather than the latter. The driver with the music is the first to spot me.

"DYLAN!" He pronounces it "DEE-LAN."

"I know! That is awesome!" I blurt out, laughing.

"DYLAN! DYLAN!" The men are all laughing and chanting. One even gives me a high-five.

"Masalamah, masalamah!" I say as I bid the drivers good-bye.

"MASALAMAH, SIR!" They pronounce it like "SAIR."

I walk on, the din of Victoria Square and Port Said Road fading into the distance. As I walk, I marvel that in the span of just a few short months, Egyptians have experienced everything from the profane to the sacred. And in an odd way, Dana and I have experienced this, too. I cannot help but wonder which way we are heading.