You Say You Want a Post Revolution

 "And so I dropped one of those, how do you call them? Yes, cinder blocks, through his windshield and pulled him out of the car by his shoulders, like this. I threw him on the front of the car and told him that he and his friends are not welcome to drive like that in front of my store anymore. He was scared, crying a little. They won't come back." I listened as Hamny, my buddy who owns a small souvenir shop in the midan near our apartment, regaled us with his tales of post revolution machismo and civic responsibility. The story sounded a little too intense to believe in its entirety. But who am I to judge a man by the accuracy of his words? I certainly hadn't seen the young punks around in a few days - the ones who were increasingly present near our house, doing donuts during rush hour, yelling, fighting, scaring common citizens in this new anarchic, post revolution Egypt. Besides the story was good, and Hamny tells it in a great voice with huge, overblown gestures.

Time in Egypt was once measured in dynasties. These lasted hundreds or thousands of years and were defined by giant monuments and the deaths of pharaohs. But that is all over now. All time now is divided into two periods - pre-revolution and post-revolution. Some wax nostalgic for the pre-revolution, which was characterized by tyranny and a relative (very relative) degree of order. Post revolution is uncertain, sometimes hopeful, a little bit frightening, and increasingly chaotic.

Street crime, which was virtually nonexistent in Cairo until the revolution, is on the rise. Purses are snatched, cars are stolen. It is still safer here than in most cities around the world. But it is not as safe as it was before. You can walk at night, but it is worth keeping an eye out for muggers. They say not to wear purses or bags across your shoulders. The mode for most theft is drive by style, three dudes on a motorcycle. They grab your bag. If you let it go it is gone. If it is around your shoulders they go anyway, dragging you on the ground until the strap breaks.

I am not a tough guy by nature. But when I walk the streets I pretend that I am. First I convince myself that if anyone wants what I have they had better be ready to kick my ass to get it. Who knows how scared I'd be if I were really mugged. I believe that I am big and strong. And I don't get messed with, with the rather glaring exception of when I was pick pocketed in the shadow of the great pyramid one week after my arrival. That was a crime of cunning and finesse, unsettling but not as intense as being mugged or dragged behind a shitty Honda motorcycle by a trio of post revolution wannabe thugs. I will swagger. I will put my cash in my front pants pocket. I will not go down without a fight.
OK, enough bravado.

Before the revolution, the police were a rather intense presence, sitting in pairs on street corners in black berets, Kalashnikovs locked and loaded. People avoided the police. They feared, respected, hated them a little, and did what they had to to avoid their attention. And then the revolution came. The brutality of the police was no match for the collective will of the Egyptian people. Hundreds died at the hands of the Egyptian police force before the regime toppled. The army took control, but faded into the background as the police came back out to the streets. You can find the police now, shadows of their former selves. They are generally unarmed and sheepish. They enforce nothing, seem to see nothing. They avoid eye contact and crime scenes. Post revolution Egypt is a  little rough around the edges.

I was walking across the midan on my way to work the other day when I saw a car accident - a very common occurrence in a town where forty people a day die in wrecks. One guy had rear ended another guy. I didn't see the lead up, but I'm sure they were both at fault. Nobody in this town can drive. They jumped out of their cars, ran up to each other, and started yelling and pushing. Yelling and pushing are never out of place in Cairo. People yell at each other when they are buying falafel. But these guys were about to go at it. I slipped away to a safe distance, curious but eager to avoid any involvement. Some fist flew, landing loudly on chests and faces. Suddenly I saw the door to Hamny's shop fly open. He emerged, broad shoulders back, chest puffed out. The dude looked eight feet tall. Hamny strode into the middle of the melee, picked up first one guy and then the other. He bodily placed them onto their respective car hoods, speaking calmly and authoritatively to each man. They shrunk. They cowered as he stood above them, explaining the new way - the way it would be in Hamny's post-revolution Cairo. Withing minutes he had made them shake hands, get in their cars, and drive away.

And then I noticed his t-shirt and realized that there are still pharaohs who walk among men. Things would be rough for a while. But there is hope for post-revolution Egypt.