I’m standing at the edge of Tahrir Square in Cairo. There’s nothing here to give you an inkling of the history that unfolded at this very spot not three years ago — no signpost, no poster, no marker. Unless you count the line-up of tanks nearby at the National Museum — I’m told they are protecting the museum from possible looters after some looting took place during the revolution.

Everyone you speak to refers to the revolution — as if it has already happened. And in some ways it has — the 18 days in early 2011 when Tahrir was occupied by millions of Egyptians, were the revolution. They brought down a dictator, created new solidarities, marginalised the right wing, humanised the army, and created the conditions for an election. And yet, there isn’t the kind of euphoria you would expect. Instead, there’s still some confusion, some concern.

In the offices of Mada Masr, an independent online news agency (perhaps the only independent one today, they tell me) a group of young people discuss the options before Egyptians today. We have to be hopeful, they tell me, but also cautious: can the army actually turn civilian? Is this possible at all? And even if the leadership changes, what about the bureaucracy, those who hold power even today — they are still from the old regime. How will this change?

There’s also concern about the many young people who were arrested and charged after the revolution. Why were they arrested? Why did the army, which claimed to side with the people, pick them up? They need to be exonerated, returned to their lives. What about those who were killed? Their families?

Later, in a meeting with some friends, I ask about women — what role did they play? I’ve noticed — I’m visiting Cairo after 18 years — many more women in headscarves than previously. And yet, there’s no dearth of women in public life — you see them everywhere, in shops, at immigration counters, in big businesses. Have you noticed, a friend says gently, that there are also many more men in traditional clothes? I look around me and I do indeed see that. This is an assertion of our identity, she tells me, it’s not a regressive thing. This is a way of saying we’re Egyptian.

At an evening seminar organised as part of an Indian festival — India by the Nile — which is what takes me to Cairo, we talk about women. Saher el-Mougy, a writer and teacher, speaks of the change that cannot be measured. The revolution, the occupation of public space, the making of that space their own as never before, all this changed something for women.

It’s difficult to say exactly what this is, changes to the psyche are difficult to map, even more difficult to quantify, but somewhere, women have made political action their own.

Earlier in the day, in a discussion with members of the National Council of Women I’ve heard the same thing. They recall the moment in 1923 when Egyptian feminist Huda Shaarawi boldly flung her veil into the sea — it’s from women like her that they take their inspiration. We will continue the fight for women’s rights, they tell me, and mention that India and the recent protests following the December 16 gang rape incident have been inspirational. The revolution has given us the same kind of hope, they say, and while we’re focusing on our country, we are also looking elsewhere. India has so much to teach us, we need to empower our women, but we also need sustainable solutions in things like solar energy, sanitation and so on.

Everyone agrees that, in a way, when thousands of women stepped out into the public space during the 18 days they made Tahrir their own, they transformed that space. The most important thing, a writer friend tells me, is that we felt safe in Tahrir, we were with our own people, we were all there for a cause we held dear. Tahrir had space for children, for music, song, dance, and when we moved out of our houses, even during curfew, we, the women, were not stopped, we carried supplies in, we took news out…

I’m reminded of the early days of the post December 16 protests: no matter what time of day or night, women felt safe. And yet, like Tahrir, this did not last. I ask her about this: Tahrir was full of stories of sexual violence.

Yes, she says, and that was deliberately used to try and break our spirit: it followed a pattern, the men who perpetrated it were not from among us, it was very clear that they had been sent in to break the movement, to divide us. I think back to the reports: the violence did indeed follow a frighteningly similar pattern, it isn’t outside the realm of possibility that the perpetrators were outsiders.

What’s important in all this, she tells me, is that we now know what to watch out for, and we know too that once having jumped into political action, we will not be pushed back, we’re working to create a new Egypt, a responsible, independent country that will be as much for its women as its men.

What more could one ask of a revolution?

The writer is an editor, publisher and the director of Zubaan.>blink@thehindu.co.in

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