by Bernadette Achtem
Special to the Review
It was Tuesday morning, Jan. 25, Day 1 of the Egypt crisis.
My sister and I were leaving Cairo, Egypt for the White Desert, west of Cairo. We had spent yesterday in Tahrir Square (Freedom Square) at the Egyptian Museum.
Our friends, with whom we were staying, suggested we leave early because of the police holiday and some talk of demonstrations.
It was three days later, on Day 3, that we heard from fellow tourists of the huge demonstrations in Tahrir Square.
It was Saturday morning, Day 6, that we were back in Aswan, a city south of Cairo.
I stood on the sidewalk watching the protesters march with their signs chatting anti-Mubarak slogans.
My heart pounded a little harder and tears began to swell up in my eyes, as I felt the excitement and hope in the voices and steps of the marchers.
We hurried back to our hotel and were able to get an English-speaking channel (the BBC) on television.
It was then that we realized we had to phone home to our families.
It was only after the Internet was back on (it had been blocked by the government for over a week) that I read the worried message from my daughter to please e-mail her.
Excitement turned to sadness on Wednesday, Day 9.
We were in Luxor, another city to the south of Cairo, in the lobby a small hotel which was empty except for my sister, myself, and three Egyptian men glued to the television.
We watched on the BBC station, the awful clashes between the anti-Mubarak and pro-Mubarak demonstrators in Cairo.
My immediate reaction was to want to put my arms around these Egyptians, who shocked into silence at what was happening.
Hope had got ugly and very sad.
Our guide explained that Mubarak had gone to the poor and paid them to demonstrate in support of him.
Also government workers had been forced to march in support of Mubarak or they would not get paid their salaries.
It was Friday, Day 11. Army tanks were on most corners. It was our last day in Egypt.
We went to the souq (market) in the morning to spend all the Egyptian money we had left, knowing we were the last tourists these sellers would see in a long time.
We forgot to get bread and debated if we should go back, as the crowds were beginning to form along the streets in the Luxor square for another demonstration.
We decided to go back for bread, wondering if it was a good decision.
We then hurried to our almost-empty hotel, but stopped quickly using our last bit of change to buy King Tut bookmarks from a young boy about eight years old, who inshallah (Arabic for God willing) would have a hopeful future in a democratic Egypt.
