Meeting Mahmoud


I first heard about Mahmoud Darwish the year I visited Palestine. Although it’s a relatively recent connection, I’ve been trying to make up for lost time – actively collecting and reading as much of his stunning repertoire as possible. My introduction came in the form of a faded photocopy of his face. It had been glued to an empty cement wall on a quiet street in Bethlehem’s old city. It was the only image amid a tapestry of community notices and advertisements and it was clear it had been left to weather there for some time. The corners of the white A4 sheet had yellowed and the black ink sported the bluish tinge of a day-old bruise. It was also clear that care had been taken not to obscure the image; the otherwise erratic display of community notices and adverts had been deliberately positioned elsewhere.

Days later, I noticed the same portrait hanging next to a framed handicraft in a friend’s living-room in Aida Camp. I mentioned that I recognised the man and was swiftly inducted into an improvised yet intensive educational program about the talented wordsmith. This first “lesson” went for hours and hours. I left my friend’s place late that evening filled with facts, verse and the clear understanding that Mahmoud Darwish was one of the most loved Palestinians in Palestine. That Mahmoud Darwish was considered by many to be THE Palestinian poet.

As a teenager I was obsessed with poetry. I used to scrawl selected lyrics of my favourite punk/anarchic or socio-politically minded musicians on my school bag. These musicians were so important to me that my backpack became a kind of scientific screening tool. If a peer or passer-by could identify the verse, chances were we had the potential to be friends; hell, even soulmates. Alongside the textbooks and ring-bound folder, I would always find the space to carry around at least two pre-loved copies of the complete works of Eliot, Keats, Plath or quite controversially, Hughes. Back then, my taste tended to be overtly sexual, political or confessional. Wordy fare which tapped into the angst I was feeling and the injustice I had started to understand was happening. By my mid-twenties, my feelings for poetry were different. We had become estranged and there was nothing remotely star-crossed about it. I’m pretty sure this happened as a result of having attended one too many Sydney spoken-word soirees.

It was Darwish who reignited this love affair. Thanks to his astoundingly good verse, poetry and I are once again united. That’s why recently when I was invited to collaborate on an arts project celebrating the work and significance of this extraordinary writer, I accepted with great enthusiasm. Before I delve into the scope of the project, here’s an English translation of a beloved Mahmoud Darwish poem spoken by my friends Mohammed Hamayel and Quds Manasra which we recorded late one night – not too long ago – at my apartment in Beit Sahour.

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Hamayel’s Sea


A friend of mine saw the sea for the very first time on Sunday. He’s been trying for years but because he’s a Palestinian born in the occupied Territories, his movement has always been restricted and he’s never been allowed to visit Gaza or historic Palestine. He’s 24 years of age, studies film and has “a thing” for porkpie hats and puns. And now, thanks to a mutual friend who knows a kind and powerful Israeli woman (with all the right connections), after years of failed attempts, Hamayel now also has “a thing” for the sea. He was granted a permit last week and I was fortunate enough to tag along. Here’s a video I made of his first moments on the sand and in the sea at Yafa.

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The September Thing

You’re a liberal thinking, peace loving, supporter of human rights, right? You care about self-determination and refugees, right? So, the Palestinian Authority’s initiative to have the United Nations recognise a Palestinian state, is a good thing then, right? Um…wrong.

Over the past month or so, several well-intentioned friends and family from Australia and elsewhere have sent me links to online petitions from activist organisations, urging the UN member states “to endorse the legitimate bid for recognition of the state of Palestine.” The thing is, most of the tuned-in, politically active Palestinians I know, are opposed to this bid.

Why? Well, it largely comes down to one hugely important detail to do with political representation. The PLO – the Palestinian Liberation Organisation – is currently a permanent observer in the United Nations; a status which has not been granted to any other liberation organisation. This is a permanent seat inside the UN which ensures representation of all its people, regardless of where they are living. Now when you consider that 70% of Palestinians are refugees, this last point is extremely important. What I’ve learned from the number of seminars and public lectures I’ve been to over the past fortnight is that a “state” can only represent its immediate dependents so, if the bid is passed, and the Palestinian Authority replaces the PLO in the UN context, what will happen when this said Palestinian State claims the rights of refugees living in Jordan or Lebanon, for example?

Add to the mix the fact that there is currently no precedent for this type of move whereby a liberation organisation has attempted to be recognised as a state inside the UN while not being remotely autonomous, and you’ve got yourself one helluva question mark. A big, fat ambiguous question mark which could ultimately rule out any true prospect for peace. At this point, it’s important for us to be clear about what UN admission would actually mean because it certainly does not equate to a right to statehood. Rather, this upgrading inside the UN would allow for the Palestinian representation to claim additional rights within the UN system and perhaps as a result of that change in member status, enable “The State” to access more effective legal mechanisms, including the International Criminal Justice system. Maybe.

If you’ve read and / or watched any media recently on the topic, you could be forgiven for thinking that this September initiative was actually going to result in real, positive change for the people of Palestine; that the Israeli soldiers stationed at checkpoints inside this new state would suddenly disappear, that Israel’s “security fence” also known as the “apartheid wall” which continues to be built on Palestinian land (no where near the 1967 borders stipulated by this new state) would begin to be dismantled, that the Israeli settlements which have not stopped sprouting-up everywhere (especially on prime, agricultural Palestinian land and often nearby hugely valuable and remarkably rare water reservoirs) would simply fade away into the horizon, along with the illegal Israeli settlers…Sadly, this is not the case.

Some human rights organisations hope that this upgrade of Palestinian representation in the UN system will strengthen Palestine’s influence over the international community’s willingness to end Israel’s occupation of the Palestinian Territories and its continuous violations of international law. But, as a Palestinian friend of mine said the other night, “we don’t have too delve very deep into analysis to discover that over the past 63 years, the international community has done very little to resolve, or indeed, help the Palestinian case.”

Would this change of status within the UN system really be all it takes, after all this time, to finally change the direction of the international community? Is it really worth jeopardising the unique and internationally recognised representational role and capacities of the PLO, for?

Personally, I doubt it.

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Ya3ni and Me

I felt pretty darn good yesterday. I managed to use one of the few idioms I know in Arabic, appropriately and to full effect. Essentially, I made some people – strangers I’d only just met – laugh. A real, hearty laugh. And you know what they say? Once a class clown, always a class clown. So ya3ni, I was feeling reasonably pleased with myself.

Now don’t think for a moment that my Arabic language skills are even close to presentable. I’m truly ashamed of how crap they are. It’s bare-bones stuff, purely elementary and merely good enough for the important things like asking directions, buying groceries and polite, inane chit-chat. Hence, being able to use something a little more complex yesterday, made me feel all “grown-up” and yes, slightly chuffed. Upon writing this however, I realise that I don’t actually possess enough of the language to properly assess whether the laughter resulted from my mesmerising comic timing or utterly atrocious pronunciation. Ya3ni, it’s probably just as well I don’t know.

For those of you reading this wondering why I insist on inserting the word, “ya3ni” into things, I guess you could say that this is just one of the Arabic terms that I now use…in English. I’ve gotten into the habit of joyfully invoking certain Arabic words into everyday English-language conversation. “Ya3ni,” which literally means, “to mean” or “I mean,” is such a wonderfully versatile term that I have decided – goddammit – I’m just not prepared to give it up!

In colloquial Palestinian Arabic, ya3ni is quite frankly where it’s at. You can use it to buy yourself time when gasping for a word, you can use it to emphasise an idea or conversely, make something less specific and more approximate. You can use it sarcastically and – most importantly – you can use it to get out of having to give a proper answer about something contentious. Too good be true? Trust me, ya3ni is really that good. Here’s an example; if someone asks you how you feel about a certain individual you’ve recently fallen out with, you can pause, take a moment to collect yourself and then demurely deliver the word “ya3ni” – taking care of course to spread the word out so that its two syllables hang in the dialogue for as long as possible.

Having road-tested this little beauty over the past six months, I’m pleased to report that this splendiferous word works just as well in English in all its glorious guises. So, as I mentioned above, I’m simply not going to stop using it irrespective of the fact that I’m heading back to Australia next month. Yes, I’m aware that most people will not have a clue what I’m trying to say, but I also believe it’s possible that if I utter it convincingly enough (especially before an audience of 17 or 18 year old cool kids) perhaps this little gem will catch on and in no time at all become a dinkum part of the Ozzie vernacular.

P.s. For those of you curious as to why the number 3 appears in the English transliteration of this beloved word, read this.

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A Room with a View

I had to move house the other day. To cut a long story short, the apartment I’d been living in for 3 months earlier this year and had returned to again at the beginning of this month, was about to become home to a German couple; a German couple who were prepared to pay significantly more than me and were planning to stay in Bethlehem for a full year. Fortunately, my friends in Beit Sahour AKA The Shepherds’ Fields (the place where the old shepherd blokes once saw that infamous star) were able to sort me out with new digs in barely no time at all. So on the day of the move, I decided to take my trusty tripod and camera for a walk and shoot some footage of the final stretch of my daily commute home.

I guess I’m fortunate in a sense because I’m one of those people who’s regularly been able to find amusement in life’s everyday and relatively inane experiences. The natty copy prepared by real estate hacks for instance, has always proven to be a reliable source. Those far-fetched one-liners (always printed in an all too elegant type-face) that find their way onto billboards advertising properties for sale, never fail to bring a smile to my face. A termite-ridden, wooden shack located under an obnoxious flight path becomes none other than a “Renovator’s Dream,” while a dark, cockroach-infested studio with missing floorboards and rising damp is unreservedly declared a “Good First Property.”

The property I was leasing in Bethlehem was once a desirable home on the hottest street in town – the road that led straight to Jerusalem. Had the Bethlehem real estate agents been as crass here as they are elsewhere, the billboard would have undoubtedly read “Location Location Location” leading up to the point of sale. In 2005 this all changed. The well-to-do Bethlehemite families who had been living it up in their three and four bedroom homes with built-ins, spacious kitchens, balconies and separate lounge and dining rooms, were suddenly affronted by Israel’s latest security measure; The Separation Wall. Although none of these homes sit anywhere close to the 1967 borders, they are located on the outskirts of Bethlehem nearby the resting place of the biblical matriarch, Rachel – considered the third holiest site in Judaism. Needless to say, the Israeli Government wanted this site – and what Israel wants it gets, especially if this desire is concealed behind the pretext of security. Building the so-called “security fence” provided – and continues to provide them – with a great opportunity to annex as much of the West Bank as they desire.

A few years ago, a relative of mine wanted to build a sun-room in her apartment. She set about making it happen but soon found that the amount of red-taped rigmarole involved (with council and neighbours) was ultimately enough to cast a shadow over the appeal of the once-important extension. If you’re Palestinian living in the West Bank, there’s never any room for negotiation. If Israel decides that the land which your family house has been on for the last eighty odd years, is land they want – then regardless of what deeds you may hold, it will be theirs. Occasionally (not always) families are “compensated” financially – but if you don’t want to move, if you have a strong or sentimental connection with the house, earth or community; tough.

After The Separation Wall was completed around the Rachel’s Tomb area, Jerusalem Street (where this apartment is based) was cut off from the rest of Bethlehem. This meant that on foot at least, access to the residential homes and businesses became a huge ordeal. The most direct route involves walking alongside The Wall, passing two Israeli Occupying Forces (IOF) Observation Towers and then heading through a graveyard! Understandably, the businesses located on this stretch of road folded and most of the people living in the houses moved. To illustrate how ludicrous this is, here’s a video I made of my walk home. I should apologise in advance for looking as grumpy as I do – in my defense, it was the day of the move and I was feeling a little stressed.

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Back In Bethlehem

It’s a funny thing coming back to a place that feels like home, but isn’t. It’s even harder to make sense of the sensation, when the said place is so different in every possible way from that space you grew up in. But for some reason, Bethlehem is quite simply that kind of place. I’m not alone in feeling it. I’ve spoken to lots of foreigners who share my love for this remarkable town. And when it comes to identifying why exactly this dusty, age-old locale is oh so special, it’s not really that tricky for me to find the words. Put simply, this is a location that regardless of whether you’re religious or secular, has been hidden in the back of your brain wardrobe from that moment you heard your very first Christmas carol. It’s a place with a true sense of timelessness and power – the latter manifesting itself in the local population who have miraculously managed to remain full of life and good humour even though they’ve had a wall built around them, are constantly under surveillance, are denied freedom of movement – as well as the ability to establish true governance and, continue to have their precious land and resources stolen in blinding day light. I’m not one for believing in miracles, but when you consider just how long these injustices have been allowed to happen and indeed, enabled by the international community, the fact that the people here have not been robbed of their sense of resilience and lightness of spirit, is in itself something not of this world and exceptional.

I arrived on the forth day of Ramadan, minutes before Iftar. In the centre of Bethlehem, the market was awash with frantic trading – men, women and children buying last minute supplies to take back to the family table for the first meal after the day-long fast. At the sound of the Muezzin, a discernible sense of peace washed over the atmosphere like an unstoppable stream. And then, just moments later, almost with the same precision as a machine starting up again, the calls of street vendors selling food and drink filled the zone with a rehydrated energy.

To put you in the picture, here’s a recording of a juice vendor, peddling refreshments from his hand-drawn trolley. I’m not remotely sure of its origins (perhaps Turkish?), but these guys always dress in elaborate costume; red velveteen suits and caps, and can be easily spotted as they weave through the streets ringing their bells and singing their songs.

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Watching Ahly Fans

I have been warned against the use of sweeping statements, but screw it – I’m going to go ahead with a big, fat one anyway. When it comes to attending a football match at Cairo’s International Stadium, it should be on EVERYONE’S bucket list, pure and simple. Trust me, it doesn’t matter at all if you like the game. In this case, enjoying football is a minor, minor detail. The truth is you’re likely to spend the majority of your time watching the spectators, not the ball.

Egypt’s fanatic football followers know how to multi-task. During a game, the stands at this impressive sports complex have it all; flags, banners, music, counter-point harmony, home-made wind instruments, fireworks, explosions and even more explosions. The Mexican Wave? Puh-leeeeeeeease. That’s for kids. At Cairo’s International Stadium, the Mexican Wave has been given an elaborate face-lift.

We got there “late.” Arriving only fifteen minutes before the game which meant we were forced to take seats opposite the die-hards. But even amidst our moderate “family” stand, almost every individual donned the Al-Ahly colours, slapped on some face-paint or came wielding a flag. The chap sitting next to me compensated for his lack of merchandise, by throwing his son in the air at the slightest hint of a goal.

To give you a little taste of the unforgettable excitement that is an Egyptian football match, here’s a short video I took on my trusty Nokia mobile (now in its 6th year and still kicking). Please note: the bright yellow flames that look like balls of fire coming from the stand are actually balls of fire.

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Mubarak Trial: A Symbol In A Revolution That’s Barely Begun


I met a man a few days ago who believes that the revolution has not been televised because there has not yet been a revolution.

“The people may have succeeded in toppling Mubarak,” he says sucking forcefully on a cigarette. “But that same regime in a different form is still in power and still arresting and torturing civilians for demonstrating against them.”

The forty-something tourism consultant believes there will be no revolution until the old regime is removed entirely.

“Mubarak was a bad man, sure. But there were a lot of bad men working alongside him too and the majority of those men are still calling the shots today, that’s why so many of us continue to demonstrate.”

There are other reasons of course. Many of the people who have continued to brave the 40 degree heat of the unsheltered Tahrir Square want justice for those killed in January’s protests. They wanted Mubarak’s trial to happen sooner rather than later – for the verdict to be dished out before he dies in an air-conditioned room of an elite Sinai hospital. These are thirsty demonstrators who have continued to stand in Cairo’s harsh sunlight cradling pictures of deceased men – some boys, barely old enough to have finished high school; others, fathers and breadwinners – their faces large print-outs on sheets of paper glued to cardboard.

The tourism consultant understands and supports these demands however he questions the feasibility of any justice being served a moment before the establishment of an entirely new, democratically-elected government.

“Justice now? How can it be possible? Take the police, for instance. Just five months ago they were firing at us, torturing us – hiring thugs to lute our precious, national treasures and create a general appearance of chaos and lawlessness. They – this same group of men, are still the law today here in Egypt. We need new law enforcement, new everything.”

Although many businesses and the majority of governmental services have been left in a state of disarray since the start of the year, the level of organisation and efficiency at a grass-roots level at least, is rather spectacular. At Tahrir Square, community-appointed volunteers surround its periphery with make-shift checkpoints; each on-coming demonstrator is frisked, has their belongings searched and their identity card scanned before being granted entry. To keep things respectable, there’s even a separate entrance for men and women, the young female volunteers apologising politely before making physical contact. Entrepreneurs sell flags and T-shirts and young hustlers chase English-speaking tourists around the square, imparting revolutionary anecdotes in exchange for Egyptian Pounds.

This morning, Egyptian state-run media has reported that Mubarak has left the hospital in the resort town of Sharm el Sheikh for the 1st day of the scheduled trial in Cairo. He is facing charges of corruption and ordering forces to fire on demonstrators. If he is convicted of the pre-meditated killing of protesters, he may receive the death penalty. State television will broadcast the trial live from the Cairo Police Academy – a large complex which was ironically once called ‘The Mubarak Academy.’

The trial of the ousted president will be watched closely by all Egyptians regardless of whether they have been ambivalent about the demonstrations up until this point or not. This is the first time that an Arab leader who has been removed by his own people has been put on trial by his own people. Irrespective of where the nation is at present in its quest for a new beginning, the outcome of this court case will be critical in determining the next course of action. As passionate groups of pro and anti Mubarak demonstrators form outside the Academy, the very emotional and complex nature of the trial serves as a reminder that a sense of closure is unlikely to arrive anytime soon. A severe verdict is likely to be appealed in a process that could take up to several months, which means for the tourism consultant at least, the revolution of his dreams could still be a very long way away.

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Some Thoughts on a Culture Gone Bad

I’ve known lots of journalists and media workers which is to be expected really, granted I’m a media worker. While I watch Rebekah Brooks stand before the parliamentary committee this evening, I’m reminded of how competitive the industry is and how ambitious media workers are.

It’s commonplace for instance, for media-workers to conceal the topic of the story they’re working on from close peers. Irrespective of the years of friendship shared, when it comes to discussing sources or potential investigative ideas, if you’re working in the same industry, you are generally perceived as competition. Add to this equation the dismal stats which show that since 2000, journalists – especially those under the employ of traditional print publications – have had to face ever-increasing redundancies and salary cuts (only serving to exemplify this sense of fierce competition as well as the desire to stand out from the pack) and you’re left with one extremely cut-throat industry.

When the allegations surfaced that individuals working for the now defunct British tabloid, News of the World, had engaged in phone hacking to acquire information, I spoke to many people – some media workers, some not – who expressed their disbelief that something so morally abhorrent could have taken place. I must say, I wasn’t remotely surprised and didn’t find it shocking. I’m also not remotely surprised that Rebekah Brooks, Rupert and James Murdoch have each denied knowing a single thing about it. I personally believe they are telling the truth but that to me, that is irrelevant. More on culpability later.

The act of illegally hacking into another’s mobile phone is positively deplorable. The act of hacking into the mobile phone of a victim of abduction who, is likely to be dead, is simply despicable. But it is also arguably an act of desperation, something which is clearly the product of a culture gone bad, one which has lost its way in every possible direction and as a result, knows no moral bounds – just the adrenalin of the newsroom and the satisfaction that comes from breaking a new angle on a tried and tested paper-selling story.

For over a decade now, academics and advisors have projected a relatively gloomy outlook for what somewhat incredulously is still being heralded a “new media terrain.” There’s been no shortage of seminars and conferences with names like Media 3000 and the Future of Media, which essentially all say the same thing year in, year out. Stalwart topic areas include, the different methods of media consumption and what that means in terms of different media delivery systems; the rise of citizen journalism and the blogging revolution – its impact on traditional media, the increase in op-ed and the potential for increased investment in investigative and feature writing units as a deliberate point of difference; how to monetise online without threatening readership figures etc. and of course, good old social networking and how to best make it work for you. If you’ve been to any two of these conferences, you may as well have been to twenty. The only thing that ever changes is vernacular. Each year comes with its very own buzz word and every few years or so, large media organisations rename the digital or online division of their company to reflect that fad and prove to their stakeholders that their finger is indeed firmly on the pulse. The term, “new media” for instance, is so 2001.

But while media business executives and academics have been discussing the impact of digital technology on today’s changing media landscape, reporters and journalists have continued to work. And, they’ve had to work a lot harder – often adding other media modalities like photography, editing and video to their daily duties as a so-called “Staff Writer.” These longer hours and the notable increase in job responsibilities have not resulted in higher pay however, rather today there are fewer full-time employees, more contractors and even further cuts to existing media staff as corporations try to rationalise their dwindling circulation figures. These cuts to journalist / photographer jobs are often followed by the employ of digital professionals – people hired to “strategise” new ways of using mobile, “monetise” banner ads as effectively as possible and “maximise” social networking reach – and all these jobs are in that relatively young department that was once called ‘New Media’.

None of this pressure of course justifies the use of illegal phone hacking to ascertain a new angle in any story. I’m merely attempting to illustrate how a culture can get to a point where this type of perverse methodology not only appears permissible, but perhaps even innovative.

With this in mind, when it comes to finger-pointing and the allocation of blame, does it really matter whether the individuals at the top of the food chain directly knew about the methodology that was being used to continue selling these papers? Who is responsible for creating a culture in which this type of behaviour is born?

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A Transitional Shelter For Sphinxes

I’m sitting by the window people watching in an exceedingly popular Zemalek cafe. I’ve reached that happy place of whimsy and water-coloured dreams – a standard transit point for me when stationary in a place that’s entirely new. The images of people are fading into kaleidoscopic jewels of colour and sound. I’m drifting further and further away, arriving at a ludicrous but strangely moving scenario about an animal shelter for homeless and impossibly cute, Sphinxes. I begin to ponder the correct plural terminology for the noun Sphinx; could it be “Sphinxes,” or is it more likely to be “Sphinxii” (??) when I’m woken rather abruptly from this amusing flight of fancy. The waiter has brought the fashionable lady with the pilates bod and Rayban sunnies the wrong low-fat frappécino. She isn’t having a bar of it, so he returns the beverage to the tray and heads back to the kitchen.

It’s not enough to stir the table of students nearby who are busy discussing the football, nor does it attract the attention of the young emo couple who are otherwise engaged gazing – it must be said – a little too happily for type, into each others’ eyes. Almost all of the tables in this three-storey cafe are occupied and there’s a lot going on at each of them.

It’s easy to confuse this trendy and affluent suburb of Cairo with a bustling neighbourhood of New York. The steady dirge of evening traffic engulfs the ebb and flow of chit-chat, ring-tones and typing on laptop keyboards in a blanket of comforting distortion; while car horns punctuate the ambience with reminders of the monumental size of the city and the many lives going about their business within it.

I’ve been told repeatedly since I arrived that it’s a city of 25 million, supposedly a number that is steadily growing. I haven’t been able to verify that figure, but I can assure you that it’s one helluva picnic. Everywhere you look there are cars and people and even more people hiding behind those cars and people. I know it’s not much to go on, but all things considered, that number feels pretty right to me. It’s very important to note that in the richness of those numbers, it’s the unbelievably poor and indeed the extreme division of wealth in society that is startlingly apparent. I’ve only been here a very short time, but so far the only common-ground that I have noted between the vastly different social classes are Egyptian football and the revolution. The latter has had and continues to have an impact on everybody, irrespective of which socio-economic demographic they belong. It is the default topic of conversation.

I visited Tahrir Square a few times over the past two weeks. Quite often it’s empty, revealing a surprising, modestly sized circle – not square – of grass. In the absence of people, the long row of vendors across the road forms a kind of cap on this now notorious piece of real estate, their revolutionary merchandise, the only real evidence of what took place just over four months ago. The street sellers are flogging Egyptian flags and T-shirts. There’s a variety of them on offer; some with images of fists in the air, others with slogans like “we the people” and “one Egypt” – almost all of them sporting the now immortalised date of January 25, in a solid, bold font. Tomorrow afternoon the square will once again become the centre for demonstration – a convergence of local people from all different backgrounds united in their demands for real change and justice, as well as their impatience at the length of time it’s taking to arrive at that point.

It is in every way a place that feels on the brink of something new and powerful and necessary. Transition is rarely smooth and never in any instance, solely exciting. There is a palpable desperation of sorts in the air and perhaps a kind of fear that stems from certain uncertainty. But, underlying all of this, is a steadfast national pride that comes from knowing that power is with the people and when they unite, anything – except perhaps adopting a Sphinx – is possible.

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