Real Democracy in Egypt - I Decide to Vote in the AUC SU Elections

Today, I got to hit someone in the name of democracy.

Yesterday police beat up protesters complaining about the treatment of judges who dared to call the presidential election a farce. Was I with them? No.

I was trying to vote for Student Union president here at the American University in Cairo. This sounds innocent enough. It’s a student election right? Again, no – it’s a four day horror fest where mobs of orange and green class hooligans accost you, wherever you are, and demand that you Vote or Die (Thanks P. Diddy).

The candidates platforms are so broad as to be completely unattainable. Their experience broad and similar – they’ve both been primo social butterflies, flitting from one event board to the other. AUC has “events” like other schools have bad cafeteria food. EVERY DAY. It’s really not that hard to fill your dance card with all the amazing things you’ve done for the campus.

The candidates also try to impress you with their amazing scholastic ability. One candidate’s platform handout said he had a 3.089 GPA. That’s a ‘B.’ The kicker was, that GPA was as of Fall 2004. That’s four semesters ago. He could be surfin’ a ‘D’ and I wouldn’t know it.

The campaign workers don’t care, though. They apparently got trained in the democratic process, which in Egypt involves buying votes, screaming loudly and beating up the opposition.

Sometimes they’re subtle: “Have you voted yet? You should vote for Seif!” Other times, not so subtle. “Please vote.”
“No,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t like you.”

No, I didn’t really say that. But after hours and hours of fending off earnest thugs, my polite tank was running dry.

So today, I decided to vote.

As I walked up to the voting location, I was accosted like a celebrity. Or, maybe a serial killer. It wasn’t like they were approaching me for my winning ways, killer smile or debonair lifestyle. In their eyes, I was a big piece of election meat, just ready to seasoned for either candidate #2 or candidate #3.

Did I mention the candidates are numbered? In Egypt, that also serves as an easy jail number for the mugshot, after the losing candidate gets sent to the big house for some hard labor.

Hands grasped my arms, orange t-shirt onion breath in my ears. “Vote for 2! Vote for 2 Have you seen his plan?” I assured them I was going to vote for 2. It didn’t matter, they followed me in, through the metal detectors, like a hawk waiting for a foolish rabbit to come into the open field.

umber three’s green shirt goons, blocked my path. “Vote 3,” said a big man. I assured him I was going to vote and my mind was made up. I did that by pushing past him.

I pushed through the crowd of yelling students, the whole place a blur of orange and green, designer jeans and FCUK shirts. A guy flew stumbled backwards past me, just pushed by the opposition. His friends pushed back. Blue-shirted AUC security guards hurdled into the fray like missiles, separating the rich and the very rich alike.

I was ten feet from my goal. I was going to vote, and no one was going to stop me. Not even people grabbing my shoulder and yelling in my ears. Not the bodies pressed up against me in the center of this maelstrom of democracy and testosterone.

Then, right in front of me, orange pushes green. Green pushes back. The crowd polarizes like a magnet, both sides pushing back. A fist shot out. Whumpf. That’ll leave a mark on that Diesel shirt. People were getting a bit to close for comfort, so I pulled my bag to the center of my back and burrowed in, shoulders and elbows first. I put an elbow one large man’s belly and pressed past, leaning in, right shoulder first. I staggered left with the crowd, using my mass, shoulders and hand to keep a bit of breathing room.

The blue-shirts again, security guards in the mix. The poll only feet away. A small Egyptian girl who had come with me grabbed my sleeve. She was almost shaking. “Let’s go!” She said. “They close the gates when there’s a fight! We won’t be able to get out.”

“I don’t want to,” I yelled back, looking back at the excitement. “This is fun!”

She gave me a quizzical look. I grinned back. But she was right. So we left.

I didn’t vote. But it didn't really matter. That's not the point of democracy anyway, is it?

Par Avion

Dear Senegal,

I left you a week ago – the same way I met you. My heart in my throat.

From the first, I could only compare you to my only other real experience. You were different of course, in so many ways. But I was fascinated to see how I responded to you, how I changed anew, how I remembered how much I liked to change.

I loved you for that. I thrilled in the chance to fill, to grow, into the space you gave me in the short time I had.

I studied you first, careful as always. So some things didn’t surprise me. I worked on the language, the mannerisms, and the traditions. What made you laugh, what made you smile, what made you sad. What you dreamed for the future, the past you wanted leave behind.

And so I appeared to you, out of the dark.

But other things gave me pause: The rhythm of your life, how who you are changed over time, how your language was different than the one I thought was all-important and thought I knew so well. You were more than I expected, yet your heart was simple.

I spun, reeling in confusion, as who you really were overtook me like a gust of wind. But afterward, we were both still there, growing together, swaying in the breeze and the night.

Then, I took you for granted. I felt that I understood you, that there were no more challenges. I got comfortable in my limited vocabulary, what I could get away with. I looked over the horizon, looked for the next sun.

And, I lost you.

I’m without you now. Who we were together changed who I am now. But I can’t help feel there was more for me to learn, more for me to change. And now – I can’t.

Maybe I’ll see you again. Maybe I won’t. It might not be up to me. But I’ll keep growing, keep changing.

And I’ll miss you.