Gaza Freedom Square
This morning following our Gaza Freedom March planning meeting, we headed to Tahrir Square in Cairo.
We waited for the sign of a flag waving to let us know that it was time to get together on the right side of the square. A big crowd was already there. Mark Johnson [executive director of the Fellowship of Reconciliation] and I joined the crowd. I took my sign of “Free Gaza” out and started to chant “Free, Free, Gaza.” Then suddenly I noticed that the Egyptian police were attacking us. This was my experience:
I am in the back row. An Italian woman, standing next to me, starts to talk to me in Italian. I can’t understand her, but from the motion of her hands I understand she is asking us to sit down. We sit down, but the police are agitated and begin pushing us off the street. The police pull people by their legs and their hair. I see my new Iranian friend, Reza, being pulled by his legs on the ground, and a woman being pulled by her hair. I take videos of some of these disturbing moments. Watching these scenes makes me shout louder.
It is my turn to be pushed and pulled by the police. They get to me and pull me toward the sidewalk. I start to shout, and suddenly I realize that I am shouting in Persian, “Marg bar dictator” (death to dictator). For a moment I forget I am in Egypt and fighting for Gaza freedom. I feel I am in Iran with my brothers and sisters, fighting for justice there.
I guess no matter where and when, fighting for justice provokes the same feelings. A dictator is a dictator, whether in Cairo or in Tehran.
As they are pulling me off, I also receive a heavy blow on my back. I am still shouting “marg bar dictator” as if all I had felt about the events in Iran during the past 6 months was coming out of my heart. I shout for my country, for Gaza, and for Freedom.
As I am being pulled by police, I see Father Louie Vitale in the middle of the crowd. The police are pushing him as well. I suddenly remember he has been on a hunger strike for 4 days now, and I get worried for him as an older man (he is almost 80). I shout to the police “stop pushing him, stop pushing him,” and then I receive another blow on my back.
The police trapp us on the corner of the street, where we had placed a small tent and named it Gaza Embassy, and called the sidewalk “Gaza Freedom Square.”
We keep up with chanting, dancing, and singing for hours. We hold signs and do all we can do to get attention. Police surround us.
I just came out to write this note, and am going back to the “Gaza Freedom Square” to spend the New Year Eve with my passionate brothers and sisters there.
Happy New Year.
