Khaled Dawoud recounts his experiences in Tahrir Square The sound of jet fighters circling above Tahrir Square on Sunday 30 January while I was sitting glued to the TV screen in my apartment in Manhattan was horrifying. Once, twice, three, and four times... it didn't take much thinking. I had been considering heading back to Egypt as soon as I saw the developments on 25 January, though I wondered what one more Egyptian could do. It was the jet fighters that made up my mind. I didn't know how long I would stay in Cairo, but was certain I had to be with my people and family. I managed to get a flight to Cairo, and eventually arrived at my family's home in Mohandseen after a three-hour drive from the airport. Every 10 meters there were so-called "popular committees", ordinary citizens who had joined together to protect their properties, replacing the massive police force that had disappeared into thin air. At each checkpoint they searched the taxi and checked my identity. Despite the fatigue of a 10-hour flight I was at home for barely half an hour before heading to Tahrir Square. I had to walk for nearly 40 minutes. There were no cars in the streets, just tanks, a few burned out shops and more "popular committees". At that time, the only barriers to getting to Tahrir were those of the army. The protesters had not yet started their own check points to prevent thugs or secret police from infiltrating their ranks. I know every inch of Tahrir Square. I studied at the American University in Cairo. My graduation ceremony was at the Semiramis. Abu Ali Café at the Nile Hilton was favourite spot, the Mogamaa, headquarters of the massive government bureaucracy, where my passports were issued. For four months I spent each Saturday at the Egyptian Museum as part of the Egyptology course at AUC. The nearby Ramses Hilton served some of the best foul and falafel sandwiches in town, and in the traditional coffee shops, ahawi, on the Square I often enjoyed coffee and shisha. The nearby buildings include the offices of many international television companies and news agencies where I worked for over 15 years. The scene of hundreds of thousands of Egyptians, from all walks of life, occupying Tharir Square to request their basic rights was something I could never have imagined. I couldn't hold back my tears of joy. I knew it was the right decision to return when I saw old friends who had done the same. Noha had come from California, Dalia from Manchester, Emad from London. All of us agreed that we would not have missed being here at such a historic moment. More reassuring than seeing old friends, however, was the presence of so many young people, the real heroes of Egypt's revolution, in the Square. The moment I entered Tahrir I saw the country I had dreamt of, where all Egyptians coexist and love each other despite differences in terms of class and religion, united by love of their country and the desire to build a better future for themselves and their children. They wanted a future empty of corruption, rigged elections, humiliation by a brutal police force and a ruling elite that daily lied to the people without shame. On 1 February former President Mubarak made his second speech since the crisis began. He succeeded in dividing Egyptians through an emotional reference to his desire to "die in Egypt". Egyptians are an emotional people. I immediately felt the impact in the street on my way back home. One "popular committee" questioned me on whether I was coming back from Tahrir Square. When I said yes their leader threatened he would break my head if I took the same route again. When I headed to Tahrir on Wednesday 2 February, the atmosphere was tense. The thousands who gathered there sensed something was about to happen. When it did it presented the turning point in the revolution that led to its success. No one could believe their eyes when they saw camels and horses heading towards the Square, their riders carrying swords, knives, whips and the wooden sticks known as shouma. The slogan that the young Egyptians raised since they started their revolt " selmeya selmeya " (peaceful ... peaceful) made no difference to the thugs. They led a sudden attack into the square, tearing down the banners and beating up protesters - men, women and even mothers carrying children. Yet it took only minutes for the young, brave protesters to launch their counterattack. Their weapon was resolve, the determination to make their revolution a success. Rocks were falling like rain. Protesters carried their colleagues to nearby field hospitals. Some looked more dead than alive. I stood helpless for minutes, unable to do anything but cry. But there was no time for such nonsense. A protester with blood streaming from his head asked where the doctors were. I led him to nearest field hospital and for hours to come that became my job: carrying the wounded to the hospital. I am too old to throw stones but when I heard that the front lines needed more rocks I started helping others pile them up and carry them to the fighters. Walking next to me was a woman in Niqab carrying rock in her dress. When the thugs started throwing Molotov cocktails and reached the Egyptian Museum the protesters rushed to put out the fire, a reflection of the love they felt for their country and its history. Shots were being fired, and I later found out some protesters had been shot with live rounds. Finally the army intervened and started shooting in the air. On Thursday, 3 February, after a sleepless night following the news to make sure Tahrir was not under another attack, I headed to the Square again. It was immediately clear the regime's plan was to instigate what looked like civil war between Egyptians. When I reached Qasr El-Nil Street, close to Talaat Harb Square, I encountered groups of thugs chanting pro-Mubarak slogans. Accompanied by secret police in civilian clothes, they had blocked every street leading to Tehrir. I thought my press pass, stating I worked for Al-Ahram, and my ID card with the same information, would make my life easy. I lied and said I was heading to the government-owned TV building to take part in a programme calling for an end to the protests. It didn't work. The thugs, with their knives, swords and sticks, were adamant. No one could pass. Nearby, thugs had surrounded a young woman with red hair and pierced eyebrows. They were pulling her hair, beating her, all the time shouting "American... American." I tried to calm the thugs down but they started attacking and beating me too. A minute later they pushed both of us into a taxi, together with five other men. We were taken to a building controlled by the Military Police. The seconds between leaving the taxi and reaching the gate of the building were the worst. We were greeted in front of that gate with more beatings and insults. Inside were dozens of people, perhaps up to 200. They were mostly bearded young men. The thugs in the street had obviously been told the revolution was being led by the Muslim Brotherhood. There were also 15 foreign journalists with their cameras and other equipment. I waited for three hours until the commander of the post finally arrived. When he saw my press ID he let me go, together with the young woman whom I learned was Egyptian, her name Yomna. I was too exhausted to go back to Tahrir, and to frightened I would be stopped again by the same thugs. The regime that shut down the internet and the mobile phone service to abort the revolution had clearly shot itself in the foot by instigating Wednesday's attacks and subsequent attempts to siege Tahrir to prevent food and medicine from reaching protesters. More sympathy for the protestors was generated among the public and on Friday 4 February their numbers swelled. My 74-year-old father joined me for the first time in the Square on Tuesday. We were met with shouts of "Welcome, welcome our heroes, come join the freedom fighters". Ten hours later my father didn't want to leave. When he finally did he saluted as many young men as he could, thanking them all. The pressure was working. Concessions trickled from the regime. On 10 February it was announced that the president would give another speech. Rumours were rife that at last he would step down and the Square erupted with singing and dancing. I was sitting on the ground as I listened to Mubarak's speech on my mobile phone. Half way through it, when it became clear the rumours of his departure were false, the crowd started chanting " erhal ..erhal ", go.. go. Many people began to leave the square, promising to return the next day in even greater numbers, not only to Tahrir but also to the presidential palaces in Heliopolis, Abdin, and Ras el Teen in Alexandria. I left home for Tahrir on Friday, 11 February, expecting a clash with the army, now Mubarak's last hope. Rumours spread that the Presidential Guard would shoot to kill if protesters stormed the palaces. But that did not scare the thousands who headed to Orouba Palace in Heliopolis. Army commanders obviously recognised that Mubarak's remaining in office was no longer tenable. He had to go. Around 5 pm word spread that yet another statement was to come from the presidency. Given Mubarak's earlier performances there was no sign of jubiliation, no anticipation that this was really it. When the crowds started cheering "we won.. we won.. he resigned" I thought it was yet another rumour. I called my father, and when he confirmed it was true, I joined the cheering, hugging and kissing thousands of people I had never met before. Women were ululating, others kneeling on the ground thanking God for the victory. The young protesters immediately came up with new slogans to mark the departure of their 30-year-old ruler. The most beautiful one was "Lift your head up, you are Egyptian." Yes, all of those in Tahrir were proud to be Egyptians. For their first time in their history they had managed to overthrow an unjust ruler in a popular revolt. And it is the love Egyptians showed for their country over 18 days that will serve as the guardian of their revolution.
