How to breathe, how to vote

November 18^th, 2011 marked the beginning of what many called the second revolution. International news outlets reported on what they dubbed “Revolution Redux” in Cairo, and the city was once again suffocated under plumes of tear gas. I was antsy to witness revolutionary fervor in Midan Al-Tahrir for myself after spending January 2011 in college, under my covers and glued to Al-Jazeera's live stream. I ventured out onto Qasr Al-Einy street, one of several arteries leading to the Square. Still blocks away from the civilian check-points, I felt for the first time the tell-tale burning sensation in my nostrils that I have yet to forget. Through the wafting clouds of tear gas, I felt my heart start to race, my eyes widened in fear, and I couldn't breathe.

It was a semi-familiar feeling; as a child, I had asthma. It's been almost 10 years since the last time I felt my throat involuntarily close up, but this time, on Qasr Al-Einy, it was different. It wasn't my body attacking itself, but the government––my government––attacking me.

When I went back to Chicago in February of this year, I landed and my throat started closing up at the most inopportune moments, making me cough violently. The first time my mother heard me cough from the other room, she knew: “your asthma is back. I remember that cough.” God bless mothers.

I was looking forward to Chicago as a detox of sorts: no more black boogers; no more brown water in the shower; no more chlorinated water supply; no more hissing; and no more tear gas in the air. I didn't expect to enter dust and pollution-free American air just to have an asthmatic relapse. I came back to Cairo and just like that, my cough was gone.

I landed and found Cairo calm. The momentum for demonstrations has grinded to a slow halt, the number of martyrs is no longer growing, and normal daily life has resumed. However, this city has yet to forget. Roads are still blocked off, embassies are still heavily guarded, revolutionary graffiti still loudly present on walls, and the radio is eternally repeating clichéd questions: “callers, tell us, has the revolution been stolen?”

Candidate Abu Al Fotouh. The graffiti
underneath reads: "Once, a man went to cheer and died", about
the Port Said football riots in which 74 died

Strolling down Qasr Al-Einy the other afternoon, I was admiring the picturesque, clashing effect graffiti had on the wealthy antiquity of buildings on the street. I like imagining Cairo decades ago, before the sepia tone, the negligence, and the deterioration set in. I love the graffiti: an oppressed voice on a city whose will was lost in the past eras of power, wealth, and corruption. I noticed, crossing the street, two men holding rags to their faces. Instantly, I took a deeper, cautionary breathe, trying to identify tear gas in the air. I had flashbacks to scenes of women fainting, people running, and men with blood-shot eyes and keffiyehs handing out surgical masks on this street; I had flashbacks of not being able to breathe, and then I realized that I could take my breathe. No tear gas. The men were only sneezing or coughing, coincidentally at the same time. I inhaled deeply, and realized that not only did I not cough, but that I hadn't since I arrived back in Egypt.

The air is still thick, but the energy is different. Instead of the men stationed on corners distributing help and aid to those affected by the gas, or collecting donations, there are political posters and graffiti lining the street. I took a closer look at one of the posters, and realized it was for a presidential hopeful: Abu Al Fotouh, an ex-Muslim Brotherhood member. Maybe, I thought, this is where the energy is being redirected. Away from civil unrest, and towards the maintenance of a fair and free democratic system––towards elections.

Perhaps it is progress. Perhaps it is seeing a poster for the upcoming presidential elections for the first time, and thinking maybe this is what the revolution was for. Maybe we've succeeded, although I think the revolution has indeed been stolen. Despite the corruption, despite the unjust riot control, despite the thick pollution, and the oppressive state of human rights, I have hopes that Egypt is healing itself through progress, just as it heals me.

I saw some of the first signs of democratic progress on the same street on which I found myself struggling to breathe while the military attempted to stifle our voices––the very same voices that will soon vote for President. I can take deep breathes now, knowing that movements take time, and comforted by the subtle markers of growth. It is right to criticize, but even more right to appreciate what has been accomplished. Abu Al Fotouh doesn't have my vote, but the freedom––uncorrupted freedom––to choose is hopefully on its way––we can all hang out in Horreya until it gets here.