The morning after the removal of Morsi from power, I was
astounded to walk down from my flat and see a white-uniformed police officer.
After about a year and a half in Egypt, I could not recall seeing one before.
As I walked to the gym, I was taken aback by how many there were now—not just
one but a handful. Also some APCs, but that was a different issue. Citizens
were going up to the officers, shaking their hands, thanking them for their
service, and celebrating the ousting of the erstwhile president.
Today, over a year later, the police are still on the
street. In recent months, there has been an uptick in checkpoints in and around
Cairo. From my house to a location about twenty minutes away, I was stopped at
two checkpoints. These checkpoints are often in the middle of busy streets, in
the middle of rush hour. Traffic, already jammed, stops. What are they checking
for? Ostensibly, terrorists. Since Morsi was removed from office, Egypt has
experienced a wave of bombings and armed attacks, mostly aimed against members
of the uniformed services. But there’s a sense of unease whenever I have
approached a checkpoint, whether I am with a foreigner or an Egyptian.
On the ground, it feels like these checkpoints are aimed at
you. You drive up and you get scared. What do I have on my phone? What do I
have in my purse? It’s a similar feeling whenever I go through any kind of
airport security here. One guy a few months ago was arrested for possessing a
drone—a motorized helicopter toy for his kid. There are many stories like this,
and after hearing them over and over, you realize it only takes one guy who
decides your two laptops mean you’re a spy and ma’salama, hope you enjoy
Egyptian prison.
When I first arrived in the early summer of 2011, I was at a
grocery store and a policeman tried to cut in line. All the people behind him
said absolutely not, you go back in line. He did. Hard to think that would
happen now. Because the checkpoints are a show of force, a sign that we’re back
to business as usual.
A few months ago, there was a break in in one of the
apartments in my building. The victim of the theft, a diplomat at the Russian
Embassy, hired plainclothes police to find out what happened (because, of
course, regular police can’t do it). For days, random men sat in the lobby. One
day, some random guy came up to me and asked who I was, what I was doing here, am
I registered to be here, and wanted to see my passport. Random Egyptian man
with no uniform—absolutely not. I asked to see his badge, which he did not show
to me. He told me he was police only. He followed me into the elevator and rode
with me to my apartment. He kept on asking these questions—and only of me, not
of my fellow elevator passenger, an Egyptian. Not wanting to get my roommates
involved, I gave him a photocopy of the passport when we got to my door, hoping
that would be enough. Twenty minutes later, he and four other large,
plainclothes men came to my apartment and rang the doorbell. Absolutely did not
answer it—never would I answer the door with five strange men standing outside.
But they stayed for a long time, kept on knocking on the door. It was
threatening, and in no way would it ever be acceptable for five strange
Egyptian men to go into a girl’s apartment. My roommate said they were just
doing it to scare me—and it damned well did. I messaged my journalist friend
who I was supposed to meet for dinner that if I don’t show up, he should write
a story about how these guys were sitting outside my apartment. Only half-joking.
During the Mubarak days, these checkpoints were rampant
throughout Cairo. Police would detain random people, torture them, and get them
to admit to unsolved crimes. Or just detain them, disappear them for no reason
whatsoever. And slowly, that feeling of invincibility of the uniformed services
is coming back.
All of this is taking place during a time where press
freedom is nonexistent. Local newspaper editors agreed a few days ago to not
publish anything critical of the government—we are in a war against terror,
after all. All NGOs will have to register with the government under a new law
that critics say will infringe on the organizations’ independence, give the
government undue sway over what they do. To be honest, democracy and human
rights NGOs will be nonexistent or token in Egypt in about a week. Bassem
Youssef and other lesser-know open-minded media folks, such as Yousry Fouda,
have resigned, silenced by pressure from the government. Egypt’s human rights
practices are under fire in the UN, and local human rights NGOs refuse to
cooperate with the international organization, saying the pressure and threats
they have received from the government is too great. Because what is a better
way to convince the world “Egypt is open for business,” Egypt is “moving
forward,” Egypt respects human rights than to threaten human rights activists.
They talk about—and most likely do—monitor social media, the Internet. To
actually see these changes taking place, to feel the fist of the state clamp
down on the press, on activists, on any form of dissent or even opinions, is
suffocating.
The government announced plans to create civilian,
neighborhood watch-type organizations with the power to detain. They ask people
to inform. My friend today posted a story mildly critical of the government,
and I commented, “You only say that because you hate Egypt.” He responded,
“Don’t report me to the police.” Haha, funny joke.
