Tweeting From Tahrir

I stood in the northern end of Tahrir Square, near the Egyptian museum, frantically taking notes, snapping pictures, and reporting live on the ongoing battle.

It was February 2, the day the authorities re-established the internet connection countrywide, after five days of disconnection, and the same day that government thugs attacked us in the heart of Cairo, on horse and camel-back and armed with stones, sticks, weapons, and Molotov cocktails.

In bursts of 140 characters on Twitter, I was reporting the battle for the control of the square – the yobs pushed, we fell back, then we rallied again. I stood my ground as the Mubarak thugs walked past me, around me. Angry faces in a standoff – they determined and looking for a brawl, us resolute, determined, but set on a peaceful demonstration.

We constantly raised our hands in the air, and shouted “selmeyya, selmeyya” (“Peaceful, peaceful”). A pro-democracy protester was about to shout back at an insulting thug when his friend pulled him back. “No insults,” he said. “Just stick to our chants instead.”

At one moment, it seemed absurd to be reporting while I was under attack. At another, I tweeted, “Screw it. I’m going in.”

But minutes later, I retreated, and went back online: I was more useful reporting and sharing pictures of the events as they unfolded than I was being on the receiving end of a shower of stones.

Might have been cowardice rather than journalistic duty, though.

When does keeping a professional distance become an unsustainable journalistic stance? When should one really put one’s notepad down and grab a rock? Holding on to ideals of emotional detachment becomes ludicrous when not only are you personally under attack, but also your country, your dream, your future. It’s not akin to being embedded with the military troops of one side of the conflict, but rather to being on one side, the morally stronger but physically weaker one.

It wasn’t only their thugs that the government decided to unleash upon journalists. They also put their media machine to good use as well, blaming the generalised insecurity, the curfew, and the ensuing economic crisis (most workplaces were closed and stores rapidly emptying as their stocks could not be resupplied) not only on the demonstrators, but also on all journalists and foreigners.

These outside elements were accused of being behind an international plot to spread mayhem in the country.

The result was that not only did the police – both uniformed and undercover - target journalists and photographers, but some gullible members of the public in the poorer areas surrounding Tahrir Square and beyond attacked, robbed, and kidnapped reporters and foreigners.

Like many others, I was the victim of one such attack, which took place in sight of an army officer who stood idly by as a mob carrying butcher knives gathered to beat me (with their fists, not their knives, thankfully) for having identified myself as a journalist and carrying a laptop computer. The implicit accusation was that having a computer entails internet usage which, goes the mental shortcut, signifies connection to some obscure foreign power.

It is difficult to foresee the effect of the revolution on the freedom of the press. The police apparatus, a key instrument of the state in harassing journalists and enforcing its tight control on information, is yet to be fully dismantled; and as the constitution has been suspended and replaced by army communiqués and edicts, we’re unlikely to see new laws enshrining the freedom of expression and of the press any time soon.

There seems to be a withholding of criticism vis-à-vis the army, now at the helm of the nation, which does not amount to self-censorship but rather to a cautious “wait-and-see” approach on the part of the media.

In the face of internet outages, plain-clothes policemen, rocks and camels, the local non-state media did an outstanding job under difficult conditions, and has come out empowered.

In the years to come, in what we have taken to jokingly and auspiciously come to refer to as “in the new Egypt”, the media will fully and unequivocally assume its role of fourth estate.

Mohamed El Dahshan is a journalist and development economist based in Cairo.