Memories that Remain
When one street carries so many memories that are so overwhelming. When you feel it in the air, on the walls, on the faces, in the shops, on the buildings, everything carries never-ending memories. They carry memories that tell the story of a thousand years. Your feet touch the ground and you feel your breath sucked away from you. You feel your soul traveling through time, going back, living it all over again. Every single minute of it, it's all carved in all our hearts, no matter how much it changes, it's all kept deep in every single heart.
Memories of the 18 days, of the street I used to take to Utopia. Memories of the bakery shop, عتمان, that my parents used to buy food for the sit-inners from. Memories of every single time I've been searched from the committees with an apologizing smile. Memories of Thursday February 10, 2011 when I saw that Tweet and we all thought that Mubarak is leaving, of how fast the news traveled.
Memories of the Friday of celebration, of when I couldn't even get in the street. Memories of where people who went to demand justice to their martyrs where chased to, where the first big post-revolution fight started. Memories of the Ultras songs, and dances, and jumps and شماريخ. Memories of Costa Coffee, Cilantro, Beano's and Bon Appetite, memories of freshening up in the hottest summer days before going back to Tahrir. Memories of every single protest and every single sit-in that has passed from February to October.
Memories of Mohamed Mahmoud, not just the street, the street and time and fights and killings and darkness. Memories of جدع يا باشا. Memories of eyes that were taken, memories of people whose photos only remained. Memories of unbearable tear gas. Memories of people never losing hope or energy or power even when they saw others losing lives. Memories of women and men who have fought to the last minute, who lost the meaning of fear, who were ready to die if that's what it takes. Memories of photographers and bloggers who risked their lives an endless number of times to record every instant of the fight. Memories of people who couldn't fight but did everything they can to help. Memories of the pet-shop whose pets who were going to die of the tear gas, but were saved at the time when people were dying. Memories of a fight that stopped for a minute for an old woman to cross the street to flee her home because she couldn't take the gas canisters that were thrown in her balcony.
Memories of walls that have been built in every side street and were brought down, but only with colors. Memories of people who went to protest the death of their brothers but then they themselves died. Memories of graffiti that tells stories of thousands of years, the same story that has always happened through history, memories of our ancestors' timeless myths. Memories of faces that shall never be forgotten. Memories of chants that will always play in the back of our minds. Memories of names that will be forever known. Memories 18 months that will never die. Memories of a regime that was reborn again, with a beard for a change. Memories of a will that can never be defied, not matter how hard the fight is, not matter how long it takes, not matter how many times they wipe the walls. Because the memories, the names, the drawings, the people, the chants, the songs, the poems are all carved in every single heart.
Memories of the 18 days, of the street I used to take to Utopia. Memories of the bakery shop, عتمان, that my parents used to buy food for the sit-inners from. Memories of every single time I've been searched from the committees with an apologizing smile. Memories of Thursday February 10, 2011 when I saw that Tweet and we all thought that Mubarak is leaving, of how fast the news traveled.
Memories of the Friday of celebration, of when I couldn't even get in the street. Memories of where people who went to demand justice to their martyrs where chased to, where the first big post-revolution fight started. Memories of the Ultras songs, and dances, and jumps and شماريخ. Memories of Costa Coffee, Cilantro, Beano's and Bon Appetite, memories of freshening up in the hottest summer days before going back to Tahrir. Memories of every single protest and every single sit-in that has passed from February to October.
Memories of Mohamed Mahmoud, not just the street, the street and time and fights and killings and darkness. Memories of جدع يا باشا. Memories of eyes that were taken, memories of people whose photos only remained. Memories of unbearable tear gas. Memories of people never losing hope or energy or power even when they saw others losing lives. Memories of women and men who have fought to the last minute, who lost the meaning of fear, who were ready to die if that's what it takes. Memories of photographers and bloggers who risked their lives an endless number of times to record every instant of the fight. Memories of people who couldn't fight but did everything they can to help. Memories of the pet-shop whose pets who were going to die of the tear gas, but were saved at the time when people were dying. Memories of a fight that stopped for a minute for an old woman to cross the street to flee her home because she couldn't take the gas canisters that were thrown in her balcony.
Memories of walls that have been built in every side street and were brought down, but only with colors. Memories of people who went to protest the death of their brothers but then they themselves died. Memories of graffiti that tells stories of thousands of years, the same story that has always happened through history, memories of our ancestors' timeless myths. Memories of faces that shall never be forgotten. Memories of chants that will always play in the back of our minds. Memories of names that will be forever known. Memories 18 months that will never die. Memories of a regime that was reborn again, with a beard for a change. Memories of a will that can never be defied, not matter how hard the fight is, not matter how long it takes, not matter how many times they wipe the walls. Because the memories, the names, the drawings, the people, the chants, the songs, the poems are all carved in every single heart.
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