Evidence of the artistic spirit of the revolution, the graffiti that decorated Tahrir Square expressed young people's joy and determination, says Hala Salah Eldin Hussein You don't come across such eloquent voices every day, not in Egypt anyway. It was 11 February, 2011, the day when former vice-president Omar Suleiman announced that Hosni Mubarak was to step down from office, and the crowds had flocked to Tahrir Square, already crammed full of people, to rejoice. Trying to find my way through the throngs of people in jubilant mood in Tahrir Square, or swept along with the crowds until I had reached the nearest exit on Sheikh Rehan Street -- you can't choose where you're heading when there are a million people around -- I was struck by all the brilliant graffiti by unknown artists around me. In random, blurry lines, or in brightly professional ones, these artists, probably talented young people who had never done graffiti before, had created paintings that they must have known municipal workers would likely later wash away. In fact, they could not even have known for sure whether the demands the graffiti expressed, insisting on the toppling of the corrupt regime and the introduction of political liberties and social justice, would be met. Some at least of these young artists had probably been met with beatings, arrests, and even killings. Yet, they continued to do graffiti within a short distance of the ministry of the interior building. Retribution was still possible, which might explain why there were no signatures on the graffiti, whereas several names accompanied those on a wall in Mohamed Mahmoud Street, expressing the people's joy in freedom. One design remembered Khaled Said, a young man killed by police in June 2010 in Alexandria. You could tell that the graffiti artists were Internet users, engrossed in the Facebook revolution and social-networking sites, since the words "We are all Khaled Said" written on part of the wall is also the name of a Facebook group demanding legal action against those guilty of killing this young man. However, rural backgrounds could also be detected. There were scenes from the Egyptian countryside: birds, greenery, country walks and paths were all there and in every colour. No one knows when the drawings were removed. But they must have been drawn in stages, from the first protests until their triumph, since while one drawing bore the words "he's down," another marked a new and post- revolutionary change in Egyptian behaviour, "From now on this is YOUR country," it said. "Don't throw garbage in the street. Don't give bribes. Don't forge documents. Don't submit to injustice or tyranny. Make complaints against any service that fails to do its duty." One can only imagine how difficult it must have been to smuggle paint and brushes into the turmoil of the demonstrations. These markings -- people's initials, slogans and drawings, whether written, spray-painted, or sketched -- were evidence of the artistic spirit of the revolution. Somehow, amidst all the clamour and the bloodshed, young artists had come armed with brushes and paint to light up the walls with their determination. "Revolution until victory," one design read. "Hold your head up high: you are Egyptian," said another. Some designs glorified a particular day, reading "this is what happened on the 25th," while others portrayed scenes reminiscent of rural origins. There were graffiti that expressed gratitude, such as in the words "glory to the martyrs," or rage, such as in "leave, NOW." They also pointed towards the future, as in "revenge for the martyrs," and they expressed joy and the longing for joy. These graffiti were much like the statements made by the leaders of non-violent protest movements. They were politically mature, vigilant and passionate, street art that shed light upon political spontaneity and patriotism, as in the words "25 January, how sweet is my country!" They represented the true beat of the streets, being as free as air and with a clear message to send.
