Canisters trailing white clouds of tear gas arched over marchers, writes MICHAEL JANSENin Cairo
CAIRO AWOKE slowly yesterday, dozing away the morning hours of the Friday holiday before the Day of Wrath broke.
Tahrir (Independence) Square at the heart of the city was empty, basking in the weak sunlight. Shops were open in the residential district of Zamalek, one of the Nile’s islands. A small boy proffered a bunch of mint as my companion and I walked northwards toward one of the river’s many bridges.
There, black-uniformed policemen in body armour, helmets and plastic visors blocked vehicular traffic, but ignored the few pedestrians making the crossing.
We strolled to the neighbourhood mosques, as protests are traditionally mounted after Friday prayers.
Services were over but all was quiet, calm. There were no police, no demonstrators. From the open window of a battered blue car a pretty young woman hailed us in excellent English.
“You know, you shouldn’t be out in the streets. There is trouble today. Where are you going?” she said.
Zamalek, my companion replied.
“Get in, I’ll give you a ride,” the woman said.
When she dropped us off, I asked where she was going now.
“Oh, to Tahrir Square,” she said – the designated battleground between the people and the regime.
“I’m meeting four friends and we will join the protests.
“There were more of us but we couldn’t work out where to meet because mobile phones and internet are down.”
Why, I asked, was she protesting. “I’ve lived my whole life under Mubarak,” she said.
We made our way on foot across another bridge and walked along the Nile Corniche towards the bulging beige building housing Egyptian television, where a mighty line of police in riot gear deployed every few metres had formed a tight cordon around the facility.
The success or failure of many third world coups has often depended on which side held the television or radio stations.
The alley next door bulged with plainclothes police armed with staves.
Suddenly a youth broke away, pursued by a dozen of the men. He dashed across the avenue, leapt over a railing, and plunged down the bank to the edge of the Nile where he was nabbed by a hefty policeman and dragged back across the street.
We joined a handful of tourists on the riverside terrace of the Ramses Hilton as the drama unfolded in the streets below. With a metallic snap, canisters trailing white clouds of tear gas arched over a wedge of pro- testers marching along the street behind the rose red walls of the Egyptian Museum.
Clutches of observers strung out along October 6th bridge were transformed into protesters when the police targeted them with gas.
A phalanx of marchers appearing alongside the hotel was halted by another barrage of scentless gas that was born by the breeze to our terrace, settling on the skin and irritating the eyes and noses of our small group, driving us inside.
Guards at the hotel entrance would not let us leave until the gas had dissipated.
A ramshackle black and white Cairo taxi drove me back to my Zamalek hotel and charged the fee registered on the meter.
Even this stolid, upper class area hosting elegant villas and embassies was invaded by protesters who marched down the leafy streets below my balcony, chanting, “Change, change, out with Mubarak.” Cars driving slowly in their midst honked their horns to punctuate the chant.