A year has passed. Why does the smell of tear gas follow me, then? This is a house, not Tahrir Square and my room was never part of the Muhammad Mahmoud street protests. Why do soldiers cross and occupy my bed, their hands smeared with blood from corpses? Where is the tear gas coming from? How is it possible for me to forget those sad yet glorious days? The details are still etched in my mind; they are like poisonous daggers stabbing my future days. What great yet sad days!
I had not healed since the bloody scene of the Maspero (the Egyptian television building) Massacre, where some of our Coptic brothers were protesting against the injustices against them; many of us Muslims were supporting them. I never expected the idiocy of power would go so far as desecrating their bodies and inciting the media to spread rumors about them. Especially the rumor that the Egyptian Copts had plotted a conspiracy to topple the Egyptian army. Could we forget how Copts with us Muslims had provided their blood and souls, for Egypt throughout their history? At the same time, the Egyptian army themselves have Copts for soldiers. Did they want to attack themselves?
After the Maspero Massacre, I woke up every day terrified to hear that there might be another bloody incident caused by “the third party,” which the military council, the governing body after Mubarak’s departure, claimed were behind all the bloody incidents. “The third party” were active in the massacres in a way cannot even be imagined.
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