January’s Children Are Rising

رجعوا التلامذة يا عم حمزة للجد تاني

[Students rally at the German University in Cairo, Thursday, October 19th. Photo via Amina Farouk.]

“The Palestinian cause has been the major politicising factor for generations of Egyptian youth. Solidarity acts with the Palestinians inevitably develop into anti-regime dissent. History is full of examples,” writes Egyptian journalist and political researcher, Dr. Hossam El Hamalawy. 

On the morning of October 7th, 2023, when al-Qassam Brigades launched Al-Aqsa Flood, hundreds of thousands of Arab Gen-Z youth from across the world took to TikTok, Instagram and X (formerly, Twitter), to express their disbelief and joy. This sense of euphoria was unlike anything we’ve ever experienced; a fantasy once woven into a bedtime story we’d clung to as children, and despite the world’s cruelty, chose to keep an iron grip over. 

Most of us are the sons and daughters of the 70s and 80s generations; our parents’ generation, politicised or not, religious or not, was radicalised by the Second Intifada. In response, we were bottle-fed hatred towards Zionists and fierce love towards Palestinians. “See this? This is Al Aqsa Mosque, and one day, you’ll pray there,” our mothers would say. “Palestine will be freed in your lifetime, promise me you’ll fight for it,” our fathers would whisper.  

[Students at the German University in Cairo chant for Palestine on Thursday, October 19th. Video via Amina Farouk]

On the night of the 7th, a singular sentiment echoed across the world, transcending geopolitical borders and generations, “After today, we will never be the same.” Truer words couldn’t have been spoken. 

Of course, Israel declared war for the first time in 50 years and cut off water, food, gas and electricity from besieged Gaza. “Amidst the carpet bombing of the Gaza Strip by Israeli occupation forces, the lack of international media coverage on the ground in Gaza has been admonished by scores of Palestinian activists, including writer and poet Mohamed El Kurd,” Egyptian writer, Farah Desouky, wrote in an article for SceneNow. “The people of the Gaza Strip have taken on the roles of witnesses, archivists and  journalists for themselves.”

And a switch was flipped. 

Enraged by the tsunami of vitriol being produced by Western media, unmasking some of the world’s leading channels and journalists as Zionist puppets, Egyptian Gen-Z content creators decided to join the fray, dedicating themselves to the front lines of the media war. Unlike the previous generations, we were not introduced to technology, we were born into it. And we’ve proven, back during the outbreak of the Ahmed Bassam Zaki case, that no one wields tech to mobilise the masses better than we do. We did so again in May, 2021, with the rise of the IOF violence and the seemingly imminent and inevitable eviction of Palestinians from Sheikh Jarrah, proudly led by the Kurd siblings (who also belong to Gen-Z). This may be our first media war, but it’s certainly not our first media battle. 

[Egyptian Journalists Syndicate, Wednesday, October 18th. Video via Farah Desouky.]

Over the last twelve days, thousands of videos, infographics and ‘blog’ posts have been published and translated into over 30 languages, viraling across the globe at an unprecedented speed. The original posts - irrespective of medium or social media platform - and the responses given to Zionists who tried to call them out were extremely well-organised. Tactical retreats were made, cutthroat replies were given, and a strategic rally for ‘sha’bata’ on Western celebrities’ posts, including now-A’rs Al-Arab’s, with threads and links providing information on Palestinian history, art, culture and life, as well as Israel’s innumerable crimes, dumped en masse in the comments section. 

[Moatasem, Yomna, Yasser…all of you, thank you.]

As I’m writing this, the Israeli propaganda machine is shuddering through its last breaths. 

While Egyptian Gen-Z content creators glued themselves to their phones, others mobilised on ground. 

On Monday, the 9th of October, the American University in Cairo’s Student Union led a march down the length of campus, where tens of youth were chanting ‘Men qalb Al-Jami’a Al-Amrikeya, filasteen arabiya!’ Since then, and on a daily basis, they’ve led demos, absentee funeral prayers, campus-wide open mics and hosted representatives from the Egyptian Red Crescent to facilitate donations. 

[The American University in Cairo students rally. Thursday, October 19th. Video via Salma Ehab]

While thousands expressed their awe at the sight of a large demo led by Egyptian students in Cairo for the first time in over eight years, others were quick to dismiss it; citing either the youths’ privilege in knowing they could protest on campus without facing mass arrests, or openly mocking the protest, asking if these students ‘really believe they can free Palestine from inside the AUC.’

As an alumnus who spent their very last day at the American University in Cairo wearing a keffiyeh and holding a Palestinian flag printed on a banner with ten friends - with maybe twenty others, at best, joining us - to protest the murder of Palestinian journalist, Shireen Abu Akleh, I was outraged. When we organised these demos, only two of which were held over the course of the four years I spent on campus, we were an insignificant number. Usually, only the HUSS (Humanities and Social Sciences) and PVA (Performing & Visual Arts) students, would show up, while the rest of the student body would watch warily and mockingly. Both times, the university’s security surrounded us. 

And to these people, I’ve always said this: “At least we [they] are intelligent enough to use our privilege towards platforming the most important cause of all, the liberation of Palestine.” 

[Malak, Yousef, Eyad, Farah, Ahmed, Ebrahim, Amina, Farida, Nour…the few friends I remember standing with on May 19th, 2022.]

Meanwhile, in fascist Europe, friends - who had left Egypt longing for a space where they could express themselves without fear of prosecution -  were being beaten and arrested. What difference did leaving make? Is a German officer’s baton any less brutal than an Egyptian's? ACAB, always. 

However, no one could have predicted October 18th. 

We do not fall back on digital rallies only because we were born in the digital age of information. We do so because, in 2011, we were taught that the streets belonged to us, that there was once a dark cloud and a group of youth descended from the heavens to disperse it, letting the sun’s [the truth’s] blinding light shine through, if only for a moment. Then our streets were painted red with their blood. One by one, they fell; martyred, imprisoned, permanently injured, depressed. 

The Battle of the Camel. Mohamed Mahmoud. Maspero. Port Said. 

To name a few.

Then came August, 2013. We often refer to this year as ‘sanet el-sho’m’.

As children, we bore witness to the murder and incarceration of family members and teachers, and later, as teenagers, the forced disappearance of friends, colleagues and acquaintances. 

I feel the word ‘terrorised’ is befitting our case.  

While reflecting on attending her first demonstration on Cairo’s asphalt, at the same steps that once acted as the political birthplace of the January generation, Farah Desouky wrote, “I was scared because of the magnitude of this as someone who grew up in a period where taking a stance in the streets meant (and means) suicide.”

In fact, only the night before, Tuesday, October 17th, the Israeli occupation forces bombed the Al-Ahli Al-Arabi Baptist Hospital, killing over 1,000 people in what is one of the worst massacres of the last century. The videos - a man carrying the remains of his children in plastic bags, a child helping another utter the shahadah, and so many babies shellshocked and trembling - caused an uproar across the Middle East. In the West Bank, Palestinians swarmed the streets to demand that President Mahmoud Abbas step down. In Jordan, people marched towards the Israeli embassy, managing to break through the gates and set a portion of the building aflame. In Idlib, Syria, barely two weeks after their regime had bombed the city with white phosphorus, its hospitals full and martyred many, the people - bandaged, starved, exhausted, in mourning - gathered in the streets in solidarity with their fallen brothers and sisters. In Cairo, a relatively small protest erupted in Giza’s Al-Husary Square. Every single one of these regimes responded by ordering their respective security forces to forcibly disperse these demonstrations and round up the participants. 

[Al-Husary Square, Giza. Wednesday, October 19th at 2 AM.]

A day before [Monday, October 16th], security forces forcefully dispersed a sit-in by hundreds of teachers in front of the headquarters of the Ministry of Education in the New Administrative Capital, which they began that morning, in protest against the exclusion of about 14,000 teachers from being appointed to the '30,000 Teachers' competition. According to Mada Masr, the security forces arrested a number of male teachers, beat and opened water hoses on the female teachers, and forced them to board buses that took them away from the ministry’s headquarters.

Let us not forget the violence against civilians who were forced to wait for hours in front of land registries ahead of the 2024 presidential elections, but that’s a story for another time. 

And so, when President Abdel Fattah El-Sisi asked people to gather in the streets in solidarity with Palestine…we were in disbelief. Of course, something was - is - up, but it did not matter. 

[Al-Husary Square, Giza. Wednesday, October 18th, 2 PM.]

Within an hour, protests had broken out in solidarity with Palestine across major universities in Egypt. A dam had burst; thousands ditched classes and organised themselves, Cairo University, Alexandria University,  Fayoum University, Minya University, Mansoura University, MUST University and the American University in Cairo’s students, aged between 17 and 23, chanted loudly. 

These students have led the first protests in a decade, and these protests were their first.

[Cairo University, Thursday, October 19th. Video via Jana El Sawi.]

That afternoon, my friends, aged 23 to 25, attended their first demonstration outside of the safety of our campus walls. Sutar Street in Alexandria. Al Husary Square in Giza. The Egyptian Journalists Syndicate in Cairo. 

While reflecting on the moment, a comrade and friend, wrote: 

“it seemed really hard to put my thoughts down into words yesterday because i was still so fazed but right now it feels like i'm about to be overwhelmed by a sort of disappointing and unsettling clarity. as my friends and i were approaching the stand, the number of security forces kept increasing and i found myself squeezing my best friend's hand. 

at first i thought it was out of fear but i've come to realise that it was out of anger. Egyptian security forces surrounding people as they chant under the guise of protection knowing full well that if anyone steps out of line, they'd immediately and thoughtlessly shift to aggressors cemented something so devastating about this country and my (and your) position in it. this duality of the state and its forces as protectors and oppressors is such a manifest reality but i think it was partially still an intangible truth in my mind.

it made me question the space i occupy. we knew going there that this was a show for the state but i genuinely believed this is important regardless. obviously the cause is more important than anything but this was a clear hijacking by the state and its executive forces. it feels like we played into the hands of the state. we pandered to them. that angers me. it makes me question my own morals and decisions. 

it was also incredibly uncomfortable being there. it felt like nobody really knew what to do or how to do it. even those who had experienced protests or stands 12 years ago were unsure of what to do. like they forgot. it was also hard to chant with the people because it felt performative. i think my main issue with this is that it wasn't disruptive. it was sanctioned and meticulously analysed by an oppressive regime that has no regard for human life and dignity if it stands in the way of its existence.

it also felt like there was always more to be said. more to be done. more havoc to be wreaked. people were censoring themselves. weaving in the words of what they really want to say but holding their tongues. i understand why. i wouldn't want them to do anything differently. it was still incredibly painful and frustrating. once again we are helpless pawns in the hands of this regime.”

[Egypt’s Journalists Syndicate, Wednesday, October 18th. Photo via Farah Desouky]

Today is Thursday, October 19th. 

The American University in Cairo witnessed its largest protest in ten years, as did the Cairo University. The German University in Cairo witnessed its first demonstration in a decade, as did the British University in Egypt. 

[British University in Egypt, Thursday, October 19th. Video via Laila Raik]

I feel that my friend’s reflection has left little to be said in terms of the general consensus regarding our bodies and the state. 

Instead, I will begin with words I’d carved in my own heart, from the ephemeral Arwa Salih’s ‘The Stillborns’. 

"لقد مسه سحر الحلم مرة، وستبقى تلاحقه دوماً ذكرى الخطيئة الجميلة - لحظة حرية، خفة لا تكاد تُحتمل لفرط جمالها - تبقى مؤرقة كالضمير، وملهمة ككل لحظة مفعمة بالحياة والفاعلية، ومؤلمة. فالواقع أن سكّة "اللي يروح ما يرجعش" ليست سكّة ثالثة إنما هي كامنة في قلب اللحظة التي تقامر فيها بوجودك لتتبع الحلم ".

“The magic of the dream touched them once, and the beautiful memory of sin will always haunt them - a moment of freedom, a lightness that is almost unbearable - that remains haunting like conscience, and inspiring like every moment full of life, effectiveness, and pain. The reality is that the path of “whoever goes away will not return” is not a third path, but one that lies at the heart of the moment when you risk your existence to follow the dream.”

A sanctioned dream is still a dream. 

Imagine a man whose head is forcefully submerged in a tub of water, causing him to go limp. Suddenly, right when unconsciousness is about to claim him, his hair is yanked, pulling his head out of the water for a brief moment. His eyes widen, and his mouth opens instinctively to gasp for air before he is forcefully pushed back down into the water. However, this time, the struggle is renewed and he begins to, desperately, fight against the pressure.

[Mansoura University, Thursday, October 19th. Video via Revolutionary Socialists.]

Alaa Abdel-Fattah, in an article he co-authored with then-fellow prisoner, Ahmed Douma, in 2014 wrote:

"لا تتسع الصناديق ولا القصور ولا الدواوين ولا السجون ولا حتى القبور لأحلامنا. لم نَسْع يوماً للمتن لأنه لا يتسع إلا لمن تخلى عن الحلم. حتى الميدان لم يسعنا.. لذا دارت أغلب معارك الثورة خارجه، وظل أغلب أبطالها خارج الكادر."

A sanctioned dream is still a dream.

It is proof of life. Our generation is neither clueless nor reckless. Its leftists have stumbled through the left’s many groups and subgroups, facilitated only by the transformation of the left from a communist-socialist axis to simply ‘left of the government’. The regime severed the pipeline, demolished Cairo as we knew it, and spent billions on films and series to make itself look perfect, all in hopes that our generation grows to be sociopolitically unaware. 

How could we, who inherited ‘عيش حرية عدالة اجتماعية’, ever be unaware?

We were indoctrinated to believe that our voices will bring about our death. 

But I promise you, the January legacy lives on; its chants wedged in our throats, its martyrs’ faces - if not names - burned behind our lids and its values upheld in our personal lives until such a time when they can be once more adopted publicly and collectively.

Your sacrifices were not for naught. 

[A sight for sore eyes, one we’d never imagined we would witness in our lifetime, let alone so soon. Egypt’s Journalists Syndicate, Wednesday, October 18th. Photo via Mostafa Abdallah.]

And in Douma’s forever relevant words:

"الحلم هو الميدان"

‏والثورة:

‏مسكنها الذات!!

Love,

Banouta Men Masr

P.S. To عمو حسام, my mentor and revolutionary godfather, thank you for actively seeking to rebuild the pipeline; to share your knowledge, your resources and your love with us, unconditionally.