8th February 2011, Cairo
At almost midnight, I stand in the temporary Masri Law Enforcement headquarters in the Mugamma. Plain-clothes officers buzz about, hovering in and out of the building. We leave from the back exits, a conspicuous detour that will take us into the streets. I look out at the window and survey the foreground. You can smell plumes of smoke floating into the oddly brightened sky. Fire flickering into buildings, poised to quiver and crumble.
A mass of people gather outside the once-glorious Tahrir Square. They are faceless, an obstacle in the path of survival. And I survive alone. My colleagues ask about my wife and child, who have joined the congregation of the enemy. What of it? I survive alone, and we do not act like this by choice. I wish to survive, by any means necessary. If those people who opposed us understood our civil plight, the sharpness that cuts our flesh and souls foregoing our conviction, then they would do the same as us. Throw them into the throngs of our lives, and they will do the same.
Still they persist outside. From my view, the collective mass of people pulsates and fluctuates. The ground is a bubbling canvas of people clad in different shades of clothing. At the epicentre of the assembly, tents and slogans are prevalent. An ambience fit for ‘revolution’. Revolution indeed. The words of a certain philosopher ring true. The natural state of man is that of war.
We receive the order to infiltrate. We begin to come out of the building one-by-one in casual clothing. Cloaked by the night sky, I see my colleagues join the crowd, nonchalant and camouflaged in the gathering. The enemy is far too immersed in talks of change to notice our presence from a few metres away. The press reports that about a million people have come to the Square. It could look like a football ground from here but the people are covering the roads, covering all corners of the area from the roundabout. We have all heard stories of older times when this Square was filled with uprising’s roar, but never in my time did I believe it would happen again.
Our operation begins, as abrupt as it was delivered to us by our commanders and leaders. It is a simple assignment with no theatrics. All we need to do is disrupt the crowds anywhere and everywhere. The more we persist, the more likely we can deter the rest. A chaotic formula to a chaotic situation. And our efforts are realised early on, as I hear screaming and see the fluctuated crowd ripple like a wound-stricken deer, immobile and barely breathing. We are armed with small batons, ready to charge at the nearest dissident with stealth.
I sift through the crowd, grappling with people, shoving them out of the way. My colleagues are lost into the sea of people, so I focus on my own immediate territory and charge at the most rambunctious. A quick swipe downs a youth. As he falls, people scatter apart in horror. I have since pressed on a few metres to subdue the next person. The sounds around begin to intensify and adrenaline begins to take precedence; a whooshing sensation in my ears as I decimate and startle the dissidents with baton charges.
By now the protesters have realised our existence and are seeking us out. We stand at ease, scattered but blending in like chameleons. Besides, their attention soon drifts from us as I see horses galloping. I am not sure who the riders are. Plain-clothes, or perhaps genuine right-hand men of this soon-to-crumble kingdom. The crowd gets the message too, as the shrieking mass open up various paths to avoid getting trampled. I march onwards, insistent on finishing the mission.
This whole spectacle leaves me unguarded for a moment when I am knocked back by a force that sends me flying to the ground. I cough into sand, my breath soaking the ground with a ruby patch. It glimmers in the dark. I land with my palms kneaded on the ground, and I drag them up to face a startled youth with his fists raised. His knuckles are glazed with blood. My blood. My face begins to ache and I advance towards him, baton unsheathed. But my cover has been blown and I am circled by more angry men. One of them snatches the baton from me and sends a kick my way. I arc back and crumple towards the ground, the rusty taste of blood fresh in my mouth. A few from behind restrain me and produce my ID card, throwing it into a pile of other ID cards. A dog tag collection.
I am hauled up to my feet by two of them and slammed towards the nearest wall. One of them approaches, our eyes delving and inquiring into each other – mine the lifeless pair, his, exhumed with fury. The adrenaline within me dies down, the weight of pain now unadulterated. And by Allah, that is the moment I begin to truly hear everything around me. The sounds of screaming and chants of revolution, topped off with the light beating of the daff.
I am not listening to the roars of the man in front of me, but I push away from him, light enough to indicate my forfeit. I stand back from the small crowd amongst the whirlpool of people tonight and uncover a glint of steel from my pocket. A 9mm Beretta M1951. They bristle and jitter like rabbits knowing their predator and I pull the trigger towards the ground. With a click, I discard the magazine and throw the handgun to the side and ask for my wife and child.
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