Chapter One: Exodus Arab Spring''s arrival in Tahrir Square starts peacefully enough over drinks for privileged tourists at a grand hotel balcony party barely a block away. History, for better or worse, is in the making. Cairo, hub of organized protests across Egypt, buzzes with strident calls for President Hosni Mubarak''s resignation. Public plaza optimists see change for the good ahead. Skeptics in the audience fear trouble from many quarters. Realists pulling strings play both for fools. At the impromptu balcony party overlooking these fervent chants for change, an American fellow into his sixties proudly chuckles, "If this doesn''t take you back." "It takes you back to class, man!" a balcony wise-guy hoots, "Nobody ever saw you out in the streets.
" The two are touring with an alumni reunion group of gently-aging former campus hippies. Bummed, the initial quipster now sans chuckles has no comeback. Others in the know share biting laughs with his wise-guy nemesis. Their needling of him inspires everyone else on the balcony to dig deep into fond recollections of their Berkeley protest days. Attention spans wander. Downwind and down below, downtrodden local masses form ever growing throngs. Quite dutifully, they enthusiastically shout rhythmic slogans while waving hope-filled signs and colorful banners. All in all, the protestors walk that peaceful protest walk with passion; though knowing anything could happen in a heartbeat.
And it does. Riot police squads suddenly show up fully armed, releasing tear gas. Mayhem ensues. Everywhere, rocks, water cannons and obscenities explode. Both sides give it their all. Police, of course, have the edge. They soon splinter the frothing mob into isolated quadrants of desperate street-fighting. The visceral sound effects are as frightening as the gritty visuals.
"Holy shit!" bellows someone on the Berkeley balcony. It dawns on the California set the wild scene below quickly could escalate their way. Terrified, yet transfixed, they watch live, in person. Some duck below railings for perceived safety reasons that in truth are meaningless. Nowhere in Cairo is safe. Inside from the balcony a ballroom party rages, more Berkeley grads of flower-power days. Those dancing the dirty dog have no idea trouble brews outside. Homing in, as they are, on their partners with advanced, yet subtle, groping techniques.
At the bar, big drinkers are too busy drinking to notice an overhead TV news update. Other oblivious revelers roam about the ballroom gabbing, drinking and gazing at photos from back-in-the-day. Good times being had by all. Meanwhile, upstairs in a junior suite, a head-turning blonde, fiftyish being the new forty, works her cell phone. She barks, "Nothing?" with authority, ever mindful of the riotous ruckus outside below on Tahrir Square. "What about tomorrow?" Sheryl Taylor, Tour Director for the Berkeley booking, gets no encouragement from the other end. Leading edges of panic come to her weary eyes. Nevertheless, she remains businesslike in the task at-hand, trying to make exit reservations for her clients.
"Thanks anyway, Omar." Speed-dialing another number Sheryl keeps an eye on things outside. This is not her first panic attack in Cairo, having once narrowly missed injury in a minor pipe bomb incident near the pyramids; and twice having been accosted on the streets by roving pickpocket gangs. She knows trouble when she sees it, and she sees it now. Her cell call is answered. "Hey, Mohammad - yes, hi - Sheryl again, so what about my tickets to anywhere sometime soon?" She patiently listens to his long reply, conceding, "Just keep me in mind, Mohammad, thanks." Sheryl dials up yet another number. Undeterred by a busy signal, she scrolls for one more contact and tries again.
At least it''s ringing. She hangs in, anxious. Back at the Berkeley balcony, only a half-dozen of the graying boomers still monitor Tahrir Square. One balding Golden Bear moans, "What a mess!" about the obvious. Police squads up the ante on viciousness. Their blatantly brutal crowd control methods flat-out stun the liberal tourists from California. Even some who thought they''d seen it all. Above the din, a brave protestor''s voice breaks out in heavily accented English, "Off with his head!" meaning Mubarak, of course.
All unfolding before an endangered foreign news crew. The lippy protestor gets clubbed in the head for his theatrics. He crumbles to the ground blood gushing from a bashed-in skull. The Berkeley clique looks away in disgust, unable anymore to stomach the reality show ad-libbed before their very eyes. Making haste for the sliding door to inside, everyone pushes against each other in terror. Down below, that conspicuous news crew withdraws to safer ground on the square''s outer limits, shooting solid footage all the way. "Outta here!" shouts the producer. "We have enough!" Time piles into February with no end in sight for daily confrontations at Tahrir Square.
Some days run tenser than others, but it''s never calm. The Berkeley crowd lays low in the hotel. Power is sketchy, flights scarce, nerves frayed. The U.S. State Department advises all Americans to exit, as if by now they already didn''t know. Sheryl has known all along. When not challenged in keeping her flock calm, she heroically works her cell seeking flights.
One day, success. "Don''t worry, Mohammad! We''ll be ready! And thanks!" She has gained outbound seats for most of her group. The only Berkeley busts without reservations are those who had insisted on making their own arrangements. Some of them melt into tears as fortunate ones board an airport shuttle bus. Sheryl counsels the weepers being left behind. "I''m so sorry, keep trying! And I''ll see what I can do at the airport. Something will turn up, don''t worry." Privately, disdainfully, she thinks, "Serves you right!" Sheryl completes head-counting those boarding the bus and climbs aboard after them.
Ironically, she herself is one of the unlucky ones without a flight. Not that she could leave before the last of her charges, anyway. That goes without saying. En route to Cairo International Airport, the devout Christian prays even more than usual for her; envisioning a demonstration of God''s deliverance from evil. When abruptly an incoming call from Mohammed scores two additional plane tickets. Praising God, she''s highly upset over finding no tickets for her and a handful of others. She fights discouragement. Back at the hotel after she''s delivered the new pair of tickets to their delighted recipients, Sheryl prays fervently through the night.
Prayer, she feels, has been her saving grace; not just of late, but throughout her career. Countless are the times it has calmed crises, providing solutions. Come morning, deliverance, once again. She secures tickets through Omar for the last of the Berkeley crowd, all of whom wisely had put back full responsibility into her able hands. Still, though, no ticket for Sheryl. Nevertheless, outwardly ever optimistic, she boards the bus toting her walk-on bag in hopes something pops up on the spot before day''s end. In transit, she prays, "Divine Love always has met and always will meet every human need," latching onto words she''d first seen inside a church visited in childhood. The hopeful homily brings her peace.
"Meet my needs, Lord," she asks with complete faith. The hot and sticky terminal hums with panicked tourists. Five-thousand strong, they clog any open space and all eateries. Pandemonium reigns.