| When I look back at my people’s uprising, the same image resonates in my mind: A group of men climbing up a billboard bearing the face of then-President Hosni Mubarak and starting to tear away at it on the day nation-wide protests swept across Egypt, on January 25. By Passant RabieWhen I look back at my people’s uprising, the same image resonates in my mind: A group of men climbing up a billboard bearing the face of then-President Hosni Mubarak and starting to tear away at it on the day nation-wide protests swept across Egypt, on January 25. I saw that image with both shock and admiration. It was an outspoken gesture that was so unfamiliar to me and I knew, right there and then, that this was the beginning of the end. Frustration was not an unfamiliar feeling for most Egyptians. But what was familiar is that you could only vent privately behind closed doors, during taxi rides and among friends at a café — never out loud. Over the past 30 years, the government had drilled into people’s minds that it is not only useless to speak out about your frustrations, but that doing so has consequences. Sure, there had been protests before January 25, but they were always the same faces, from the same movements — the people who had gotten used to the beatings, the questioning and the detentions. The average citizen, however, would not risk that. They wouldn’t risk their well-being or the well-being of their families. As long as they get through one day, and then the next, and then the next, it would be okay. Freedom is a luxury item when people are trying to make ends meet. It wasn’t exactly a priority. Egyptians were often accused of being passive, held back by their fear of a vengeful regime that allowed no person to stand in its way. But you can only take so much from someone’s dignity, pride, self-expression and overall rights without having them retaliate in some way or another. You can only push people so far before they explode. People had had enough of the pressures of day-to-day life: of believing government lies and empty promises that had been televised for 30 years; of hearing stories about young people who had tried to spread the truth but instead were hunted down, murdered on the streets. On that particular Tuesday, all passivity, submission and fear went out the window and Egyptians from all ages, social classes and backgrounds took to the streets to regain the rights they had lost over the course of 30 years of oppression. Egypt was silent no more and it was going to take more than tear gas, water cannons, rubber bullets and live ammunition to silence its people again. There comes a point when you no longer care about your fears. I have to admit, walking through Tahrir Square for the first time on February 1, I was taken aback by the chants, the slogans and signs. And even though I was surrounded by thousands of people who shared my beliefs, I was hesitant to shout anti-government slogans out loud. I was held back by an innate, child-like feeling that what I was doing was wrong. When I began my career as a journalist, I was fooled into thinking that I would be able to shout out my anti-government sentiments in my own way, on paper. However, I soon discovered that so-called freedom of expression does not exist and what I had previously thought was a journalist’s worst enemy, self-censorship, later became the only tool I could use to get my work through and on paper. But during the protests, I heard the collective, “No!” shouted out by everyone in unison. For me, even if the protests had not paid off, that self-expression in itself was worth it all. After being silenced for so many years, Egyptians finally fought against a 30-year-old fear barrier and sacrificed their lives to be heard. As I continued walking through Tahrir Square that day, I forced the first anti-government chant out of my mouth, my voice getting louder and louder with every slogan. I had broken my own fear barrier. |
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