Bullets, Bureaucrats, and Bad Coffee: My Date with Cairo's Less Romantic Side.

A silhouette of the protagonist stands in front of an abstractly depicted Cairo skyline, armored vehicles looming ominously in the streets. Bullet trails fill the sky like ghastly rain.

There I found myself, meandering through the labyrinthine veins of Cairo like a lost dot in a connect-the-dots puzzle, all while trying to make sense of this grand cosmic joke. I had done the unthinkable: I'd kicked Islam to the curb and waltzed right into the arms of the Coptic Protestant Church. Think of it as a religious genre switch, swapping the old-timey classic for the edgy new release.

Now, this wasn't an overnight flip of the switch, oh no. This spiritual expedition spanned the grand total of one, yes, one whole year. It might as well have been a lifetime, given the spiritual load I was hauling. My identity, once a stable ship sailing predictable seas, found itself subject to the whims of a stormy faith-quake. It was all very existential and disconcerting, a veritable funhouse mirror that twisted the very core of my being into unrecognizable shapes. Life, am I right?

Ah, and the tales my hands could weave, seasoned by the sands of time and hardened by ceaseless hours of voluntary toil. They were the scribes of my life's saga, callused and scarred, each mark a chapter in the tireless epic of serving Egypt's less privileged. I'd walked enough miles in their worn-out shoes to know the footnotes by heart, and boy, were there footnotes!

From sunrise to sunset, I'd done it all, and then some - an Egyptian Superman?!, though minus the cape and the fan club. And what did my noble spirit earn me? Why, a resume punctuated with a stint or two behind bars, of course! All courtesy of my fondness for voicing inconvenient truths in the form of protests. Quite the pastime, really.

You'd think that taste would lose its flavor after the first couple of bites, but oh no, every fresh serving of temporary imprisonment had its own distinctive palette of bitterness. A flavor is not too different from an undercooked koshary, that strange blend of rice, lentils, and pasta we Egyptians find oddly appealing. It's like a bellyful of political activism that leaves a funny aftertaste. Yeah, that's me. The unwilling expert in questionable imprisonments.

Each time, the metal bracelets snapped around my wrists resonated with the hollow echo of unfulfilled promises, a tune that did the macabre dance on my tongue. But hey, if life hands you lemons, you make lemonade. In my case, life handed me cuffs. Perhaps it's time I started a cufflink business.

Now, let me take you back to the vintage year of 2011. Ah, the naive hope of revolution still buzzed in Cairo's veins like a teenager on their first energy drink. Those sweet little seeds of rebellion sowed during the January 25 uprising were yet to bloom into the promised fruit of freedom. Then along came October 9, a day that burrowed into my memory like a determined tick, feasting on the lifeblood of our dreams in a buffet called Maspero demonstrations.

Locking arms, we hummed our anthem of unity, “Muslim and Christian are one hand”. Imagine, if you will, a patchwork quilt of humanity, each thread a unique tale of dreams and decency. Demonstrating before the state television and radio building, our voices ascended in a choir of justice. Because our humble church, Mary Nab, had been erased from Aswan as if she was an embarrassing typo, and we were out to write her back into existence. Then there was the Aswan governor, a man whose very existence was like adding gasoline to the bonfire of religious intolerance. He needed to be shown the exit, and fast.

Now, you'd think they'd roll out the red carpet for such a peaceful demonstration, wouldn't you? But no, the stat police welcome wagons they sent was less “democracy in action” and more “let's see how many bullets we can use”. Forget dialogue, gunshots were the preferred punctuation in this conversation, and lives were the punchline of some sick joke.

The grand stage for this demented performance was none other than Maspero Street. As we stepped foot on its ancient cobblestones, the harmony of our protest was swallowed up by the cacophony of gunfire. Oh, how the bullets flew, whistling past our heads like demented metal birds, each crash of bone their morbid applause. And let's not forget the star performers – the armored vehicles, those mechanical behemoths that mowed us down with a casual ease that was almost laughable. Atop these monstrous chariots, soldiers twirled their rifles, faces twisted into monstrous smiles, as if they were kids playing a macabre game of 'whack-a-protestor', scoring imaginary points with each life they snuffed out. Talk about a mad tea party!

However, the symphony of slaughter had only played its opening act. The lights committed the ultimate betrayal, trading their warm glow for the monstrous embrace of darkness. Amidst this blind nightmare, the monstrous vehicles paraded around like crazed dancers, painting the streets in shades of red and black with their macabre ballet. But the true horror wasn't just the blood-soaked spectacle, oh no, it was the puppet masters behind the scenes.

The radical Islamists, those good old peace-loving folks, had devised the entire monstrosity, whispering venomous tales in the ears of the impressionable masses. They'd managed to cultivate a thriving garden of hate for Christians, irrigated by prejudice and fertilized with bigotry. The violence, the bloodbath, the mindless tragedy – all part of a grandiose performance choreographed in the twisted theater of fanatical frenzy.

And, as an encore to the Maspero Massacre, my illicit tango with the law resumed. A whole three weeks of 'warm hospitality' in the ice-cold lair of the political police was my reward for defending human rights. Their ruthless interrogations and gentle persuasion (read definition: torture) for the identities of the demonstration organizers met a brick wall of my stubborn silence. After three weeks, when they finally had enough of our little game and let me go, I was more or less a shattered echo of my past self. My spirit was in ruins, my faith lost in the twisting labyrinth of despair. Isn't life just peachy?

And there I was, finally buckling under the unyielding gravitational pull of reality. The fire of resistance flickered and died, like a pathetic candle in a hurricane of tradition. My dreams, once proud shooting stars leaving trails of hope in the night sky, sputtered out into pathetic ashes. The eager activist, that optimistic fool, was buried in an avalanche of despair, leaving behind a lifeless doppelgänger surviving on a steady diet of apathy and indifference. I hoisted the white flag and returned to the humdrum monotony of life, a life distinguished by unthinking conformity and a proud tradition of following dusty old manuals.

My destiny, once a blank canvas awaiting my vibrant brushstrokes, was gobbled up by the bottomless pit of desolation. I locked up my pen and camera, my love for writing and photography choked beneath a stifling quilt of hopelessness. I ceased to be the Samaritan for the needy, retracting into a cocoon of impassivity. Me, the comrade who once stood alongside my brothers and sisters in protest, fled into the shadows, the flame of rebellion cruelly extinguished. It seems, that life, has a twisted sense of humor.

And so, as a moth is inevitably drawn back to a flame, I found myself slipping back into the comforting yet suppression folds of Islam. Not due to a sudden spiritual enlightenment, oh no, but rather as a square peg whittled down to fit into the monotonous round hole of societal norms. The journey from Islam to Christianity and back again was akin to a frenzied dance on the knife's edge of faith, a dance that left me wobbling on the brink of an endless abyss of spiritual uncertainty. Thus, was born the apatheist, detached from the religious hoopla and the meaningless rituals that followed.

The tale of that hellish day is a monstrous tattoo, eternally inked into the secret crevices of my heart. It's a macabre narrative of dreams butchered on the chopping block of fanaticism. As I shamble through the remains of my life, the ghostly echoes of gunshots and the dreadful visions of brutality are my uninvited companions, a constant thorn in my side, grim reminders of a past that was and a future that could have been.

Today, I'm an apatheist. The existence of God, or the lack thereof, is as inconsequential to me as the pattern on my neighbor's hideous curtains. Why torment oneself with the concept of a divine being who seemingly can't be bothered to glance in your direction? It's an exercise in futility, akin to standing at a deserted bus stop, hoping for a ride that will never come. But hey, it’s not all doom and gloom. My sarcastic humor remains intact, my loyal companion during those long, desolate nights. After all, who else will appreciate my “Radical Muslims are assholes” mug? I mean, besides the radical Christian who made it and the atheist who sold it to me. Now, there's a trinity for you. Ah, the sweet taste of bitter irony!

Sega