It was a visceral contact high: those synchronized chants, the graphic images on the posters, the sheer volume of those crowds moving through Downtown’s streets as one unrelenting force. The monumental buildings of Nasser’s Cairo stood there as if silent witnesses to their very destruction; to their purpose being rewritten.
And yet somehow, amid all those impassioned men and women, he felt utterly and eerily alone.
He was not just severed from the love he had fought so hard to preserve; he was now divorced from himself, too; pushed toward Tahrir by the mobile anger surrounding him, pushed toward that inevitable confrontation with the military they were planning for days.
The cell phone bars had long disappeared. The once searing sun slipped behind the clouds.
At that moment, as an almost instinctive response, he reached for his inside jacket pocket, panicking. As his fingers brushed against the emptiness, he remembered he had carelessly thrown his passport onto the dinner table, leaving it lying next to the pile of American change he had emptied out the night before. They were all now sitting there together in the dark, forming a small memorial on a Cairene table to the life he had come there to abandon.