The Arab Spring | الربيع العربي
"A journalist and a protestor meet in Tahrir Square. The revolution changes everything—including what they mean to each other."
The Arab Spring
الربيع العربي
Cairo, January 2011
Tahrir Square is alive.
Thousands of voices, thousands of bodies, all demanding the impossible: change.
I'm here to cover it. She's here to make it.
I'm Marcus.
British journalist, forty-two. I've covered conflicts worldwide, but nothing like this—the energy, the hope, the terrifying possibility.
She finds me taking notes by the lion statue.
"You're press?"
She's maybe thirty-five. Thick, defiant, a Palestinian scarf around her neck.
"BBC."
"Good. Tell them what's happening. Tell them the truth."
"What's the truth?"
"We've stopped being afraid."
Her name is Dina.
Professor at Cairo University. Political science. She's been organizing for years, waiting for this moment.
"They'll crack down," I warn her.
"Of course they will. They always do. But this time—" She gestures at the crowd. "This time, we don't stop."
We spend the day together.
I take notes; she translates. We dodge tear gas, share water, watch history unfold.
"You're not scared?" I ask.
"Terrified. But fear isn't an excuse anymore."
Night falls.
The crowd thins but doesn't disperse. Dina and I find a corner, backs against a monument.
"You should go to your hotel," she says.
"So should you."
"I live here now. Until it's over."
"When will it be over?"
"When Mubarak leaves. Or when we all die." She laughs grimly. "Those are the options."
"That's dramatic."
"That's Egypt."
We share a blanket.
The square hums around us—chants, songs, the distant crackle of tear gas canisters.
"Thank you," she says.
"For what?"
"For staying. For bearing witness. We need people to see."
"I see."
"I know. That's why I'm thanking you."
The kiss happens at 3 AM.
Between fear and exhaustion, between one chant and the next.
"This is inappropriate," I say.
"Everything is inappropriate right now. Might as well embrace it."
We don't go further.
Not that night. Not the next. But the connection deepens—shared meals, shared danger, shared hope.
"What happens after?" I ask.
"After the revolution?"
"After us."
"There is no after us," she says. "There's only now. The revolution teaches you that. Everything is temporary."
"That's depressing."
"That's liberating. If everything is temporary, nothing has to be perfect."
February 11th.
Mubarak resigns. The square explodes in joy.
We're together when it happens—holding each other, crying, screaming with everyone else.
"We did it," she breathes.
"You did it."
"We. Including you."
That night, we finally go somewhere private.
A friend's apartment, empty because she's still in the square. We're dirty and exhausted and vibrating with triumph.
"I want to feel something other than adrenaline," Dina says.
"What do you want to feel?"
"You."
She's soft and strong.
Like the revolution—yielding but unstoppable. I worship every curve, every stretch mark, every scar from rocks thrown and batons dodged.
"Beautiful."
"I've been in these clothes for a week."
"You're still beautiful."
We make love while Cairo celebrates.
The sounds of victory through the windows, her sounds in my ears. When we finish, we lie tangled together, finally at peace.
"Stay," she says.
"In Egypt?"
"With me."
"I have a job. A life."
"You have an excuse. That's different."
"Dina—"
"I know. I'm being unreasonable. We've known each other three weeks."
"The most intense three weeks of my life."
"Then stay. See what happens."
I stay.
Not forever—my job calls, and the revolution's aftermath is complicated. But I keep coming back.
Five years later
We live between Cairo and London.
She teaches. I write. We meet in the middle—geographically, emotionally, in every way.
"Happy?" she asks.
"Happier than I was before Tahrir."
"The revolution changed everything."
"Especially us."
The political situation worsens over the years.
The hope dims. But we remain—a small victory among larger defeats.
"Was it worth it?" she asks sometimes.
"Which part?"
"Any of it. All of it."
"You taught me what courage looks like. You taught me that fear isn't an excuse. You taught me—" I pull her close. "You taught me that revolutions come in many forms."
"That's poetic."
"I'm a journalist. We have our moments."
Alhamdulillah.
For squares that become homes.
For revolutions that become love.
For springs that never quite end.
The End.