Counter Revolutionary Egypt: From the Midan to the Neighbourhood (Routledge Studies in Middle Eastern Democratization and Government) [1 ed.] 1032528524, 9781032528526

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Counter Revolutionary Egypt

Focusing on the 25 January 2011 Egyptian revolution, this book traces its affective and emotional dynamics into the local realities and everyday politics of the urban subaltern, exploring the impact of revolutionary participation on protestors’ engagement in street politics. As well as investigating the affective dynamics of the revolution, the author analyses the spatiality of affect in the context of the Maspero Triangle neighbourhood, highlighting the disruption of the revolutionary moment and the evolution of informal political practices. In addition, the book focuses on state efforts to counter revolutionary street politics by co-​opting and dismantling politicised local practices. It is argued that the appropriation by the state of the notion of the baltagi helped create narratives around “thuggery” to undermine the politics of the urban poor. Based on empirical fieldwork, the book ultimately shows how the revolutionary moment informed subsequent local activism, illustrating that it was both disruptive and productive in terms of contentious street politics. Combining literature on affect and emotion, intersectional gender and everyday politics, the book yields innovative and renewed insights within the fields of political science and Middle East studies and will prove valuable reading for anyone interested in the Egyptian revolution and its aftermath. Dina Wahba is Postdoctoral Researcher at Freie Universität, Berlin. She received her PhD from Freie Universität, Berlin, where she worked as a research associate in the DFG-​funded project Affective Societies.

Routledge Studies in Middle Eastern Democratization and Government Edited by: Larbi Sadiki, Qatar University

This series examines new ways of understanding democratisation and government in the Middle East. The varied and uneven processes of change, occurring in the Middle Eastern region, can no longer be read and interpreted solely through the prism of Euro-​American transitology. Seeking to frame critical parameters in light of these new horizons, this series instigates reinterpretations of democracy and propagates formerly “subaltern,” narratives of democratisation. Reinvigorating discussion on how Arab and Middle Eastern peoples and societies seek good government, Routledge Studies in Middle Eastern Democratization and Government provides tests and contests of old and new assumptions. 32. Secularism Confronts Islamism Divergent Paths of Transitional Negotiations in Egypt and Tunisia Mohammad Affan 33. Altered States The Remaking of the Political in the Arab World Edited by Sune Haugbolle and Mark LeVine 34. Narratives of Arab Secularism Politics, Feminism and Religion Youssef M. Choueiri 35. The Role of the Military in the Arab Uprisings The Cases of Tunisia and Libya Ali Sarihan 36. Counter Revolutionary Egypt From the Midan to the Neighbourhood Dina Wahba For more information about this series, please visit: www.routle​dge.com/​middle​east​stud​ies/​ser​ies/​ RSM​EDG

Counter Revolutionary Egypt From the Midan to the Neighbourhood Dina Wahba

First published 2024 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 Dina Wahba The right of Dina Wahba to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-​in-​Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-​1-​032-​52852-​6 (hbk) ISBN: 978-​1-​032-​52853-​3 (pbk) ISBN: 978-​1-​003-​40874-​1 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/​9781003408741 Typeset in Times New Roman by Newgen Publishing UK

Contents

Note on Transliteration 1 Introduction

vii 1

Battle of the narratives: #new_​republic  1 Main argument and research questions  3 Background and significance of the study  3 Literature review  5 Outline  7 Theoretical framework  8 Politics, affect and emotions  8 Definitions  10 Locating feelings: affect and space  12 Affect and power  15 Gender  17 Subjectivity  19 Methods and methodology  22 Positionality  22 Feminist methodology  23 Affective methodology  24 Methods: data collection  26 Data analysis  27

2 An affective register of the revolution Affect and political action  36 The affective impulse to act  37 The affective register of The Midan  41 The making of The People  43 The breaking of fear  49 Expansion of the political imaginary  52 Conclusion  55

36

vi  Contents

3 Moving out of the square

59

Revolt in the neoliberal city  59 A brief history of Maspero Triangle  63 Policing youth  66 The revolution in the neighbourhood  69 Maspero project  74 Asmarat: “An open-​air prison”  77 Resistance strategies against collective erasure  81 Women and youth alliance  83 Conclusion  85

4 The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi

90

Governing through affect  90 The systematic attack on affective registers  92 Maspero Massacre  94 Reinstating fear: the making of the baltagi and the terrorist  101 Rabaa massacre: no safe exit  111 Resounding silence  113 Crippling guilt  115 Tears of the patriarch  120 Conclusion  122

Conclusion

128

The affective register of the revolution  128 Building a new nation  129 The baltagi and the terrorist  130 Prisoners of love, prisoners of hope and the ghost of January  131

Index

135

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Note on Transliteration

The transliteration of Arabic words for this book uses the system of the American University (AUC) Press which can be accessed on the AUC Press website. All interviews were in Arabic and thus some were translated by me and others by a professional translator into English. When needed, I included some of the expressions used by my interlocutors in transliteration along with my translation. Except for personal and place names, transliterated words have been written in italics.

1 Introduction

Battle of the narratives: #new_​republic There seem to be two main public narratives (Somers, 1994, 619) about Egypt post 2013. A state narrative that is symbolised by the hashtag of the new republic1 that can be found on every state and private TV channel and social media. This centres the Egypt of the New Capital with the tallest building in Africa and highlights the regime´s mega projects and expediated urban restructuring to transform Egypt with new cities, high rise buildings, new bridges, highway roads and Egypt´s first Monorail2. However, as Egypt´s economic crisis worsens3 a popular political narrative (Andrews, 2007) that has been developing over the past few years emboldens as state narrative clashes with people´s lived realities. A popular narrative is forming from below that questions the promises of a new Egypt and the value of all these national projects. When I started the research for this book in 2016,4 it was clear that the counter-​narratives were already beginning to form. As my research progressed, it became evident that my interlocutors were more interested in telling me stories about their involvement in the 2011 Egyptian revolution and participation in local politics in its aftermath than in answering my questions. The act of storytelling helped them connect the extraordinariness of the events they witnessed with the normalcy of their daily lives (Murray, 2003, 97); it was a way for them to discuss painful events and convey their emotions, sometimes even in the manner of testimony. Professor of indigenous education Linda Tuhiwai Smith, in her foundational book “Decolonizing Methodology” (Smith, 1999, 144), highlights testimonies and storytelling as culturally appropriate methods of conducting research in a way that gives more control and space to the community being researched and enables them to tell their truths. The stories I collected give personal glimpses into events, but when woven together, they provide insight into what it felt like to live through the revolution and its aftermath. It seemed like a battle of narratives was brewing.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003408741-1

2  Introduction When I visited Egypt in late March 2018, two significant developments in relation to my research were taking place simultaneously: the demolition of Maspero Triangle, the neighbourhood I have been working on for my case study, and the re-​election of President Abdel Fattah al-​Sisi for his second term. A big campaign banner of al-​Sisi, one of many engulfing Cairo, was hung on the 6th October Bridge overlooking Maspero, with the slogan “You are hope,” as the bulldozers below demolished the homes of over 4000 families. I was in a taxi trying to inconspicuously take pictures of the banner and wondering what my interlocutors would say when I ask them about how they viewed this “promise of hope” overlooking the destruction of their homes. I was also pondering the almost nonsensical sequence of events. Maspero was one of the most militant neighbourhoods in 2011 to defend the occupation of Tahrir Square by protestors. Being situated adjacent to Tahrir, it played a crucial role in sustaining The Square during the eighteen days. Seven years after the revolution, the neighbourhood was faced with complete erasure. This book provides a reading of the affective and emotional dynamics of the eighteen days of the Egyptian revolution, as well as an investigation of state-​ society relations afterwards through one neighbourhood’s struggle for survival. Moving beyond Tahrir Square and exploring how the affective register of the revolution was lived and manifested in the local context is essential to understanding the backlash to the 2011 revolution. Thus, the book examines how the revolution was lived and appropriated by Cairo’s urban poor, focusing on the residents of Bulaq Abu al-​Ila and Maspero Triangle. My data shows that intense emotive and affective experiences during the revolution led to the activation of a priori pre-​existing oppositional subjectivity (Ismail, 2013) that revamped local politics, which I trace through the struggles of communities for urban rights. Central to fathoming the aftermath of the Egyptian revolution, the closure of opportunity, and the unsuccessful transition to democracy, is the regime’s systematic attack on the affective register of the revolution. One of the ways in which this has and is still being achieved is through the affective making of the figure of the baltagi (thug) and the terrorist, as well as the fast-​tracking of urban restructuring projects that aim to restructure spatial affect. The contribution of this book addresses several gaps in the current literature, including a lack of empirical investigation into the role of affect and emotions during the Egyptian revolution. There are few studies that consider the role and experiences of the urban poor in the revolution and/​or the role of affect and emotion in the counterrevolution. This book goes a step further and connects the counterrevolution, the experiences of the urban poor, and urban restructuring. Drawing on affect theory and political studies, the book uses affective and feminist methodologies and builds upon the ethnographic fieldwork field I conducted between 2016 and 2018 as well as subsequent research between 2018 and 2022. I conducted narrative interviews with more than fifty interlocutors, held focus-​group discussions, conducted participant observation, and supplemented my data with selected archival material.

Introduction  3 Main argument and research questions This book is built on three main pillars: firstly, the affective and emotive dynamics of the “Midan Moment” (Ayata and Harders, 2019) and how it relates to street politics; secondly, the spatiality of affect and the case study of Maspero neighbourhood; and lastly, the role of the state in dismantling local practices through countering revolutionary and neighbourhood street politics. The Midan Moment was both a disruptive and productive rupture for contentious street politics, which has been developing over the years in Cairo. The revolutionary moment provided a political playing field, a space and time in which certain political practices developed through the collision of different political worlds in Tahrir Square. Through a thick description of the moment, based on empirical fieldwork, this book shows how the revolution informed and changed subsequent local activism. The role of the baltagi is key in understanding the relationship between the urban subaltern, the state, and the disruptions of the revolution. Thus, the book examines the mechanics of the making of baltagiyya, the appropriation of the notion within revolutionary struggle, and the ways in which narratives around thuggery were used to vilify the urban poor and undermine their politics. Through combining conceptual lenses of analysis—​intersectional gender literature, everyday politics, and research on affect and emotion, this research yields innovative and renewed insights in the field of political science when studying the Egyptian revolution and its aftermath. Some of the research questions that will be explored in this book are as follows. What are the affective and emotive dynamics of the 25 January revolution? What are some of the most prominent affective states experienced by protestors during the eighteen days of the revolution? Why and how were these emotive and affective experiences transformative in the development of oppositional subjectivities? Why and how did the state co-​opt emerging affects and political practices? Background and significance of the study Tens of thousands of Egyptians took to the streets of Cairo and other governorates on 25 January 2011, following a call for demonstrations against President Hosni Mubarak’s regime. Men and women of different ages and diverse social classes occupied one of Egypt’s most infamous squares in downtown Cairo, Tahrir. On 28 January 2011, security forces disappeared from the streets of Egypt leaving a huge security vacuum. In a heavily securitised state with constant police presence, the deliberate withdrawal of law enforcement agencies, as well as the spreading of rumours about the opening of prisons and state-​sponsored thugs attacking private and public properties, created a state of collective panic. To deal with this imminent threat people started organically organising themselves into groups to protect their private property and their neighbourhoods—​in a fashion similar to that of a neighbourhood watch, with day and night shift sentinels armed with basic weapons such as

4  Introduction wooden sticks. They also created roadblocks and checkpoints to secure their areas, and later coordinated with the military when they took to the streets. Popular committees were formed in most major cities in Egypt, such as Cairo and Alexandria, and then spread to the rest of the country. Rooted in the practice of Tahrir, these committees were diverse, depending on the socio-​economic construction of the neighbourhood they were formed in and their relation to security forces, among other things. Following the ousting of Mubarak, these committees evolved in different directions, and emerged as new informal, grassroots political practices, with the potential for localising the revolution in some areas (Harders and Wahba, 2017). In the years that followed the revolution, many actors in Egypt went through a crucial politicisation process, through which they entered the formal political scene as newcomers, particularly women and youth. Many political parties, as well as various initiatives, were formed in the wake of the revolution. My interest in local politics in urban poor neighbourhoods stems from my attempt to empirically examine emerging political subjectivities and changing local activism through the affective and emotional dynamics of the revolution and its aftermath. A few studies have discussed the role of the urban poor in the revolution (Ismail, 2013); however, many scholars have neglected the politicisation of the urban poor when analysing transformations or lack thereof in Egypt. This book provides a closer examination of the revolutionary moment itself and what was manifested during the eighteen days. I look at what was already changing, and what was developed during the revolution, and trace those dynamics out of Tahrir into the political chaos that followed, both spatially and temporally. It is truly a daunting task in the heart of all this chaos, disappointment, even failure, to look for traces of this change. Focusing on popular neighbourhoods, and more specifically on that of Bulaq Abu al-​Ila and Maspero Triangle, allows me to trace this manifested change back into the everyday politics of citizens in their struggle with the regime, to examine whether the revolution disrupted informal traditional ways of doing politics. “It is in the local scale that power relations become tangible and abstract concepts such as ‘state’ and ‘politics’ observable” (Bouziane et al., 2013, 3). Building on the work of scholars of everyday politics, street politics and politics from below, I turn my gaze back to the street, and more specifically to one neighbourhood adjacent to Tahrir that lived the revolution with all its tribulations; a neighbourhood that affected and was affected by the revolution. Political scientist Salwa Ismail, whose work focuses on urban politics and state-​society relations in the Middle East, believes that the role of the urban subaltern in the revolution is productive in unpacking and tracing the everyday in the Egyptian revolution. “The infrastructures of mobilization and protest lay in the microprocesses of everyday life at the quarter level, in their forms of governance and in the structure of feelings that developed in relation to state government” (Ismail, 2012, 450). Ismail treats quarters, or neighbourhoods, as spatial political laboratories where the urban poor, through rigorous

Introduction  5 negotiations and everyday encounters with the different arms of the state, can accumulate knowledge about modes of governance and how to resist. This was played out in the role that the urban poor undertook in the revolution, as reflected in the narratives of my interlocutors and highlighted in some scholars’ accounts of the revolution (Ismail, 2013). In Ismail’s account of the “backstreets of Tahrir,” (Ismail, 2012) she narrates several important “battles” in informal neighbourhoods that she believes were vital to the success of the revolution. These battles manifest the moment of convergence between locally grounded grievances and national revolutionary politics. “The account of the battles serves to draw attention to the place of popular quarters in the geography of resistance, and to the spatial inscription of popular modes of activism” (Ismail, 2012, 446). The importance of Ismail’s account is in linking popular resistance to the spatial characteristics of the quarter. The neighbourhood of Bulaq Abu al-​Ila played a prominent role in sheltering activists, defending the occupation of The Square, and engaging in prolonged street fights that exhausted the police and kept them from reclaiming The Square. Ismail (2012, 448) links the neighbourhood’s repertoire of contention to a history of patriotism that goes back to the resistance of the French colonial conquest, highlighting a spatially bounded accumulation of generational knowledge and an affective register of popular resistance. The aim of my endeavour is not just to highlight the role of the urban poor in the revolution and subsequent politicisation and depoliticisation, but also to link this to what the state has been learning about countering possible future mobilization –​to foresee state strategies of radically altering everyday modes of governance, and with-​it modes of resistance, and to connect this to the urgency of urban restructuring processes taking place in Cairo. Literature review It is necessary to go back to Tahrir Square in 2011 to be able to study the post-​ revolutionary condition and the intricate links between street politics and the 25 January revolution. This book examines what the revolutionary moment had to offer, and how disruptive or productive it as for my interlocutors and my case study. The book looks at Tahrir Square from the perspective of the residents of Maspero neighbourhood and studies how the moment informed the political activism and practices of my interlocutors, and how the revolution affectively changed people’s political imaginaries in Maspero. What kinds of avenues, spaces, links, and solidarities did the moment offer, and how were these continued or ruptured afterward? Based on empirical findings, the book shows how Tahrir Square was a medium: a political playfield in which to practice street politics. It offered a space where certain political practices developed and intensified through the collision of different political worlds embodied in the diversity of political actors, political ideologies and extensive ideas that were present in The Midan at the time. This is explored and demonstrated through a thick empirical description of the moment via the experiences of

6  Introduction my interlocutors. Moreover, the book examines the ways in which contentious street politics played out in Tahrir, giving way to radical militant political practices that sustained the moment throughout the eighteen days and disrupted the well-​oiled machinery of the Ministry of Interior. The aim of this endeavour is threefold: to trace the evolution of local political practices; to highlight the role of the urban poor, specifically Bulaq Abu al-​Ila and Maspero neighbourhoods in the revolution; and to explore how this relates to a possible retaliation from the post-​revolutionary regime in the form of rapid urban transformation. The book critically engages with literature that centralises affect and/​or emotions to explain the Egyptian revolution and build on this through findings from my research and conversations with my interlocutors. Political scientist Wendy Pearlman, whose research focuses on social movements, argues for a focus on emotions as an approach that could answer the question: Why do people join mass protests? My research confirms Pearlman’s findings that emotions and affective dispositions are important in explaining political action (Pearlman, 2013). Pearlman points out some of the limitations of social movement theories, specifically assumptions about actors as utility-​maximisers, and tries to look at emotions to understand why people act in ways that might contradict their own security. She posits two categories of emotions linked to political action: dispiriting emotions such as fear, sadness and shame that decrease the possibility of resistance, and emboldening emotions such as anger, joy and pride, which mobilise people to take greater risks (2013, 388). As compelling as this assessment might be in linking certain emotions to different types of mobilisation and demobilisation, it is contradicted by my empirical data. Almost all my interlocutors’ narratives point to what I call emotive chaos. The different categories of emotions that Pearlman neatly classifies were often all present simultaneously in my conversations with them. My interlocutors did not identify or link one emotion to mobilisation and another to demobilisation, and they often referred to shame or sadness as mobilising emotions. Fear did not disappear in almost all their accounts, and actors chose to protest despite fear and not because of its replacement with anger. Benski and Langman seek a similar typology of emotions to explain mobilisation (2013). They claim that a constellation of emotions, namely distrust and disrespect of authority, indignation and anger combined with hope, can lead to social protests (Benski and Langman, 2013, 535). My findings contradict these emotional typologies. A close reading of my empirical data calls into question both Perlman’s proposed model of dispiriting and emboldening emotions and Benski and Langman’s emotional constellations. None of my interlocutors singled out certain emotions in relation to mobilisation or demobilisation. Pearlman criticises instrumental explanations of why people protest, claiming protestors were rational in embracing the risks mediated by hope, which she claims is not a cognitive fallacy (2013, 389). In proposing emotions as an approach to explain the Arab Uprisings, Pearlman highlights the rationality of emotions, and explains how rational actors can make decisions based on

Introduction  7 emotions. She is critical of the instrumental paradigm, but not of the rational paradigm for understanding protest. According to Brennan, this is symptomatic of the cognitive bias found in social movement literature. Brennan believes that the focus on the rational individual in this field signals a shift away from affect and asserts the primacy of cognition over emotion in shaping agency (Brennan, 2004, 61–​63). Other literature, which I will explore in more detail throughout the upcoming chapters, examines the role of affect and emotions without necessarily creating rigid typologies and in ways that are empirically rooted. Professor of anthropology Hanan Sabea tries to capture the ordinariness and extraordinariness of Tahrir Square. She describes the eighteen days as “time out of time,” highlights the elusiveness of what is yet to unfold, and confronts the messiness of reality (Sabea, 2013). Similarly, Sholkamy refers to the eighteen days of protests as liminal moments that are in-​between the disruption of the old and the emergence of the new (Sholkamy, 2012, 154). Cilja Harders and Bilgin Ayata coined the term “Midan Moments” to conceptualise the affective and emotional dynamics of Tahrir Square in 2011 and Taksim Square, Istanbul, in 2013 (Ayata and Harders, 2019). They highlight both the temporal and spatial aspects of the term in a way that allows them to analyse the emotional and affective dynamics of occupying a square. Samuli Schielke examines the positive and negative aspects of affect, beginning with affective ties during the eighteen days and developing into deep polarisation in Egyptian society in 2013 (Schielke, 2015). This book builds on existing empirically-​ grounded literature on affect, emotions, and the Egyptian revolution. It does not seek to impose emotional typologies on a complicated reality. Instead, it seeks to extend a relational understanding of the affective dynamics in The Square and looks at what emerges within a collective. It does not assume that actors are solely individuals bound by their rationality and mechanistic calculations; rather it looks at The Midan as a process of becoming, in which social and political structures were negotiated. I engage with empirical data and existing literature to explain the affective register of the revolutionary moment and its long-​term implications for Egypt’s political reality. Outline This first chapter provides a brief outline of my research endeavour including the theoretical framework underpinning my study, as well as my methods and methodologies. Chapter two provides a thick description of the most prominent affective states that were present during the 25 January revolution, and which still linger. Chapter three details the history of Maspero and its struggle, the history and development of the Maspero Youth Alliance, the role of Maspero in the revolution and the role of the revolution in disrupting old political and social networks and in the opening of new spaces for political activism. In chapter four, I examine the systematic role of the state in co-​opting and

8  Introduction dismantling politicised local practices and emerging political subjectivities to curb revolutionary street politics. The chapter answers questions such as: Who is the baltagi (thug), and how does the state rely on this narrative to control young male poor bodies? How did the revolution disrupt this relationship between the baltagi and the state, and how did the state reinstate the baltagi narrative in the case of Maspero. Chapter five, the concluding chapter, further elaborates on the links and interactions between The Midan, Maspero and the role of the state. It details how the revolution disrupted old ways of doing politics in Maspero and attempts by the state to erase revolutionary solidarities through urban displacement. Theoretical framework In this section, I expand on the theoretical framework that guides this book. Based on my research, I argue for the utility of reading affect theory alongside literature on everyday politics (Bayat, 2017, 2013; Bouziane et al., 2013; Ismail, 2006; Singerman, 1995) to understand the affective and emotional dynamics of the revolutionary moment and the participation of the urban subaltern in protests and local politics, as well as their subsequent demobilisation. A reading of affect theory with politics from below (Harders, 2018) can help us better comprehend four interrelated aspects of the politics of the urban poor, namely: gender, subjectivity, materiality and power. In considering gender, the book focuses on constructions of masculinity and subjectivities among the urban poor. When discussing materiality and power, the book examines the urban space of the neighbourhood and explores manifestations of state power as it works through affect. Feminist theorist Clare Hemmings criticises the “affective turn” and notes: “Affective rewriting flattens out poststructuralist inquiry by ignoring the counter-​hegemonic contributions of postcolonial and feminist theorists, only thereby positioning affect as ‘the answer’ ” (Hemmings, 2005, 548). I consider Hemmings’ critique and reconcile postcolonial and feminist theories with affect theory, rather than dismiss them as being no longer novel or relevant. Politics, affect and emotions

In this section, I sketch a brief historical overview of the uneasy relationship between affect and emotions in the study of protest movements, and then explain the position of this book within the literature. It is imperative to understand why political scientists, sociologists and social movement scholars still shy away from centralising affect and emotions in their studies of collective behaviour, and why they sometimes resort to overly rationalised emotions. In this regard, sociologist Deborah Gould argues: Psychologically reductive accounts that pathologize protests and protesters did not die out in the nineteenth century but rather continue to circulate

Introduction  9 widely today. The corporate media, politicians, and others with a vested interest in maintaining the status quo frequently describe social justice activists as driven by emotion (which they pit against reason) and protest activities as irrational and childish, rather than a legitimate mode for expressing political grievances. (Gould 2010, 19) According to Gould (2010, 18) and feminist philosopher Teresa Brennan (2004, 61), the work of Gustave Le Bon, specifically his well-​known book The crowd: A study of the popular mind (1895), had far-​reaching influence in terms of how affect and emotions are theorised in relation to collective action. Gould and Brennan both highlight how Le Bon’s work on crowds has deemed protestors to be irrational and impulsive, comprised of “mad individuals” (Brennan 2004, 59), or depicted them reductively as an “unruly mob” (Gould 2010, 18–​21). Brennan (2004, 61) notes a move from the 1960s onward in the literature away from affect and toward the idea of the rational individual that is evident in the work of Charles Tilly (1978) among others as a reaction to the dominance of Le Bon’s work (Brennan 2004, 61). Similarly, Gould argues that critiques of Le Bon’s school of thought inspired the emergence of social movement studies in the 1970s, which produced rational-​actor models that are still prevalent in the study of protests and protest movements (Gould 2010, 22). The rational-​actor paradigm was challenged by an emotional turn in social movement studies that took place in the 1990s, which was a crucial step toward opening space to consider the emotional facets of mobilisation and demobilisation. However, according to Deborah Gould, this literature—​the work of scholars such as Jeff Goodwin, James Jaspers and Francesca Polleta only served to rationalise emotions within a limited framework (Goodwin et al., 2001). “What encumbers our progress in my view, is a tendency to render emotion in cognitive and rationalist terms, thereby taming it conceptually” (Gould 2010, 23). Gould’s work ascribes more to the affective turn (Clough and Halley, 2007) that occurred across several disciplines. She furthers the study of political protests to incorporate nonrational aspects of political emotions (Gould 2010, 25). Incorporating affect into the study of emotion and political protest is vital in challenging the boundaries of this literature to include the bodily, the emergent and the nonrational facets of emotions. Moreover, for the purpose of this book, centralising affect alongside emotions is crucial in understanding my empirical data. The narratives of my interlocutors frequently depart from the neatly ordered assumptions of rational emotions into emotive chaos, fluctuating intensities experienced during the eighteen days of revolution and after, and their embodied and mediated feelings. The emotions they experienced and narrated were at times rational, and at others were not. Thus, it became clear that to understand my data I needed to engage with and build on literature since the affective turn. To deploy affect in this book as a theoretical lens, it is crucial to provide a definition of affect and an understanding of the importance of studying affect in relation to the politics.

10  Introduction Definitions

“The problem that must be faced straightaway is that there is no stable definition of affect. It can mean a lot of different things” (Thrift, 2008, 175). As human geographer Nigel Thrift highlights, many theorists and scholars have grappled with definitions of affect. For this book, I am interested in two streams of thoughts: one that builds on the work of personality theorist Silvan Tomkins, and another that follows the tradition of Spinoza and Deleuze. According to Hemmings, our current “affective legacy” stems from both Tomkins’ and Deleuze’s notions of affect (2005, 553). Deleuze understands affect as a bodily intensity that can defy social logics, an intensity that marks changes in states of being focusing on their embodiment (Deleuze and Guattari, 1987). Scholars such as philosopher Brian Massumi (1995), Deborah Gould (2009, 2010) and Eve Sedgwick (2003) have further developed those notions of affect, especially when it comes to their political potential. According to Massumi, affect is a nonconscious, pre-​lingual bodily intensity that is distinct from emotions, while “[e]‌motion is qualified intensity, the conventional, consensual point of insertion of intensity into semantically and semiotically formed progressions, into narrativizable action reaction circuits, into function and meaning. It is intensity owned and recognized” (Massumi, 1995, 88). I ascribe largely to the definition of affect and emotions developed by Gould (2009, 2010) who bases her definitions on the work of Massumi (1995, 2010): I use the term affect to indicate nonconscious and unnamed, but nevertheless registered, experiences of bodily energy and intensity that arise in response to stimuli impinging on the body. (…). Another way to put it: affect colors nonlinguistic sensory experience by giving it quantity of intensity, and thus force, which prepares the organism to respond to that which is impinging on it, but in no predetermined direction. As a body’s registered sensation of a moment existing relationally, interactively, in the world, affect is an effect of being affected, and an effect that is itself a preparation to act in response, but in no preset or determined way. An affective state is, in other words, unfixed and polygenerative. (Gould, 2010, 26) Gould further explains, “I use the idea of an emotion or emotions to describe what from the potential of bodily intensities gets actualized or concretized in the flow of living” (Gould, 2010, 26). She illustrates the connection between affect and emotion and makes an important differentiation between them: Where affect is unfixed, unstructured, a non-​linguistic, an emotion is one’s personal expression of what one is feeling in a given moment, an expression that is structured by social convention, by culture. The distinction here between affect, as bodily sensation that exceeds what is actualized through language or gesture, and an emotion or emotions, that which is actualized,

Introduction  11 can be illustrated through a discussion of one way we get from the one to the other. Affect is to the side of conscious thought rather than within it, but, as sensory intensity, it can stir an inchoate sense that we are experiencing something, a vague stirring that, if forceful enough, can induce efforts-​more or less conscious-​to figure out what we are feeling and how to express it. In that figuring, we necessarily draw from culturally available labels and meanings and from our habits and experiences, through which a gesture or linguistic naming that “expresses” what we are feeling emerges. The “expression” is never complete, never an exact representation of our affective experience, hence the scare quotes; it is better thought of as an approximation. (Gould, 2010, 27) This approximation is always reductive, while affect constantly escapes capture. It is not the case, therefore, that first there is affect and then a more concrete or predictable emotion that follows. The process is not linear, as affect is always in play, even if it is not consciously actualised. Affect and emotions are intrinsically interlinked, and despite the difficulty of disentangling them empirically, Gould (2010, 28) argues that conceptually it is productive to differentiate between the two, rather than purely upholding a belief that emotions are highly linked to rationality and cognition. This conceptual differentiation between affect and emotions is aligned with my empirical data. Even when they are unaware of these conceptual debates, my interlocutors often alluded to the limitations of using specific emotion words to describe their felt intensities, especially during the eighteen days. They often point to the ephemeral, used analogies, or a complex set of emotive experiences that they found difficult to put into words. The work of psychologist Silvan Tomkins and professor of gender studies and critical theory Eve Sedgwick has also greatly influenced my research. For Tomkins (2008), affect goes beyond drives as it creates its own circuitry that connects humans. Building on Tomkins, Sedgwick argues, “[a]‌ffects can be, and are, attached to things, people, ideas, sensations, relations, activities, ambitions, institutions, and any other number of other things, including other affects” (Sedgwick, 1993, 19). Hemmings engages with the work of Sedgwick, who builds on Tomkins and Massumi, who builds on Deleuze. She proposes the concept of “affective cycles” (Hemmings 2005, 564) in contrast to Massumi’s notion of the autonomy of affect. The notion of affective cycles bridges Deleuze’s ideas of how affect travels between the mind and body and Tomkins’ concept of the circuitry of affect. According to Hemmings, affective cycles are ongoing, and are related to our political and social becoming or subjectivation processes, as they are constantly mediated by affect. The notion of “affective cycles” is instrumental in my research, as it illustrates how affect is linked to the development of subjectivity and consequently to political action. In chapter two, I expand on this idea of affective cycles and its link to what I call the affective impulse to act.

12  Introduction Linking affect to the political realm, Gould (2009) argues for the potentiality of affect and its productivity in unveiling untapped aspects of political mobilisation and demobilisation. Through recognising affect and its potentiality, Gould emphasises the importance of studying affect alongside emotions rather than dismissing it as being irrelevant to the political. She proposes three main reasons for using affect to understand political mobilisation and demobilisation. The first is related to the complexity of human motivations and behaviour that stems from contradictory emotions, feelings, affects, and attachments that have political consequences. According to Gould, “[p]‌olitical attachments sometimes, perhaps frequently, derive from visceral and inchoate fears, resentments, anxieties, desires, aspirations, senses of belonging or non-​ belonging, that an individual (or an ideal, or an organization) somehow stirs up and addresses” (Gould 2010, 29). This is vital for a nuanced understanding of human emotions and action that pushes the limits of the rational paradigm. Thus, our emotions are sometimes aligned with our rational thinking, but at other times they are nonrational and unpredictable. This understanding of affect and emotions has been crucial to my research, enabling me to unpack the nonrational aspects of protestors’ behaviour. The second reason is related to social reproduction and social change. In terms of social reproduction, Gould argues affect can help us understand people’s attachments to normative paradigms even when this seems counterintuitive to their wellbeing (Gould 2010, 32). She also maintains that affect is essential for analysing demobilisation: “[a]ffect actually may be one of the most important sources of political inaction, a topic that needs much more attention both for its own sake and as an important point of comparison to analyses of the emergence of movements and other forms of contentious politics” (2009, 26–​28). When it comes to social change, Gould explains that such change often starts from a feeling that something is wrong, the feeling that there should be a change (Gould 2010, 32). Thus, affect can help us understand the opening and closing of political imaginaries through focusing on the nonrational aspects of feelings. The third reason for using affect as a lens of analysis concerns how social movements or contentious politics are sites of “meaning-​making” (Ghannam, 2011; Winegar, 2012) that re-​appropriate, subvert or reproduce certain feelings. “A focus on affect allows us to investigate important work that social movements perform that we might otherwise overlook: the work of interpreting feelings and guiding participants in what and how to feel” (Gould, 2010, 33). Therefore, a proper study of emotions and affect through a systematic theoretical lens can help us understand nonrational and yet vital aspects of human political behaviour and motivations. Locating feelings: affect and space

In Notes Toward a Performative Theory of Assembly (2015), philosopher Judith Butler implores us not to take the public nature of demonstrations for granted, and to make the connection between location and action. In the case

Introduction  13 of Tahrir, this means to follow the crowd outside of The Square and into the neighbourhoods, in order to understand how protests interact with the local area and to challenge accepted notions of politics and appropriate space: We miss something of the point of these public demonstrations if we fail to see that the very public character of the space is being disputed, and even fought over, when these crowds gather. So though these movements have depended on the prior existence of pavement, street, and square, and have often enough gathered in squares such as Tahrir, whose political history is potent, it is equally true that the collective actions collect the space itself, gather the pavement, and animate and organize the architecture. As much as we must insist on there being material conditions for public assembly and public speech, we have also to ask how it is that assembly and speech reconfigure the materiality of public space and produce, or reproduce, the public character of that material environment. And when crowds move outside the square, to the side street or the back alley, to the neighbourhoods where streets are not yet paved, then something more happens. At such a moment, politics is not defined as taking place exclusively in the public sphere, distinct from the private one, but it crosses those lines again and again, bringing attention to the way that politics is already in the home, or on the street, or in the neighbourhood, or indeed in those virtual spaces that are equally unbound by the architecture of the house and the square. So when we think about what it means to assemble in a crowd, a growing crowd, and what it means to move through public space in a way that contests the distinction between public and private, we see some ways that bodies in their plurality lay claim to the public, find and produce the public through seizing and reconfiguring the matter of material environments; at the same time, those material environments are part of the action, and they themselves act when they become the support for action. (Butler, 2015, 17) To understand the relationship between revolution, local politics and space, I follow the crowd out of Tahrir Square and into an adjacent neighbourhood, Bulaq Abu al-​Ila, more specifically an area located in Bulaq—​Maspero Triangle. My research shows that an understanding of local politics when discussing its affective components is entangled with its spatial component and material environment. As such, the interconnectedness of the affective and the material is central to this book. Social anthropologist Navaro-​Yashin (2012) makes an argument for the importance of understanding the material and the ephemeral in collision. Navaro-​Yashin calls for “a reconceptualization of the relation between human beings and space” (2012, 16), criticising “the social-​constructionist imagination” for its focus on conceptualising space only through what humans project onto it (2012, 17). Building on Brennan’s work on the transmission of affect (2004), Navaro-​Yashin argues for affective relationality between human

14  Introduction beings and their environment. However, she does not take an object-​centred approach, but rather combines the human-​subjective approach with one that explores “excesses” in the environment that she studies through the lens of affect (Navaro-​Yashin, 2012, 18). Navaro-​Yashin’s work on the collision of the phantasmatic and the material is essential in my endeavour to understand the affective attachments that neighbourhood residents developed—​bonds that were built around the material but also moved beyond it. Thus, to understand how residents of the neighbourhood experienced the revolution and transfused their experiences into local politics, I propose an approach that combines the affective with the material through a reading of literature on affect and space alongside literature of everyday politics or politics from below. Political scientist Cilja Harders (2018, 412) argues that using “state analysis from below” as an analytical lens can help us gain insights into the effects of the Egyptian revolution. Harders (2018) believes that a closer examination of politics at the local level can not only help us understand processes that led to the revolution, but also its longer-​term influences (Harders 2018, 414). In this book I employ an analysis of the state from below to examine the local politics of ordinary citizens. Within this framework, politics is defined as formal and informal participation. “Political participation includes informal, individual, hidden, illegal, and ‘nonpolitical’ actions and networks, as well as organized public collective actions inside and outside of institutionalized frameworks” (Harders 2018, 415). This notion of local politics builds upon the work of other scholars such as Asef Bayat (2012, 2013, 2017), Diane Singerman (1995), Farha Ghannam (2002, 2013) and Salwa Ismail (2006), among others, who have conceptualised and analysed Egyptian politics through looking at the politics of the urban poor. Central to this lens of analysis is an understanding of the role that the spatial environment plays in shaping the politics of the poor. Sociologist Asef Bayat (2012) explores the politics of the urban subaltern in neoliberal cities under an authoritarian regime. He offers the concept of “social non-​movements” to analyse street politics (Bayat, 2012, 119), maintaining that the streets are vital to the urban subaltern. “The centrality of streets goes beyond merely the expression of contention. Rather, streets may serve as an indispensable asset/​capital for them to subsist and reproduce economic as well as cultural life” (2012, 119). Bayat (2012) describes the ongoing conflict over the public space between the state and the urban subaltern as “street politics.” Thus, ordinary citizens are politicised through their ongoing struggles over urban space. Some of Bayat’s arguments are limited in the context of my research, as he does not answer the question of what happens to “street politics” when the urban subaltern loses the “political street.” One of the challenges of studying Maspero Triangle is to understand the affective attachments people had to the neighbourhood. Drawing from literature on street politics and Bayat’s notion of encroachment (2012), I can understand materially the reasons why forcefully displacing people from their homes might be traumatic. As I witnessed them mourn the neighbourhood, however, it became clear to me that there are many reasons for their trauma.

Introduction  15 Nigel Thrift argues for the importance of studying affect in relation to space, to trace how affect and cities interact to produce politics (Thrift, 2008, 236). Thrift goes further to point to the political engineering of affect in urban everyday life. What may appear to be an aesthetic or feeling has often been politically instrumentalised. This deliberate engineering of affect can have various political aims: To erase emotional histories, create new affective registers, or mobilise old ones through urban restructuring (Thrift 2008, 172). The politics of affect is not incidental to cities, but is rather central to their functioning (Thrift, 2004, 57). Cities are designed in ways that can erase or invoke affective responses; a form of engineering that can then be manipulated or used as a type of power (Thrift, 2008, 187). According to Thrift, affect is intentionally planned into the material creation of cities, a process that is linked to the arrangement of power in societies. Focusing on Egypt, the development of monumental national projects under al-​Sisi, such as the “new capital”5 and the ongoing and expedited removal of informal neighbourhoods in the name of solving Cairo’s informality problem, should be seen as a continuous attempt by the current regime to spatially rearrange power and install more effective means of control over the population. These endeavours should not only be studied for their economic and urban aspects, which are valid and integral, but also for their affective and political significance. My research has shown that the current Egyptian regime has been utilising urban restructuring as a tool to redistribute emotions and attack the affective register of the Egyptian revolution. Erasing entire neighbourhoods that supported the revolution is about the erasure of emotional histories that are tied to contentious spaces. Erecting a new capital is about creating new narratives and meanings that break with an antagonistic past. It is a show of force and power. In the coming section, I discuss the relation between affect, emotions and power, together with how affect theories can provide us with a deeper understanding of how power operates. Affect and power

My argument does not neglect the role of the state. On the contrary, I argue that the state was actively learning at the time the urban poor were developing new political practices and subjectivities. Looking at the state and its practices through the lens of the urban poor and their affective and emotional experiences reveals certain state practices and processes that may otherwise be overlooked. Scholars such as Brian Massumi (2010), Sara Ahmed (2004), Ben Anderson (2010), Laszczkowski and Reeves (2018), Nigel Thrift (2008), Navaro-​Yashin (2012) and Ann Stoler (2004) have conceptualised and theorised the relation between the state, power and affect. They have explored the state both as a site of intense and often contradictory emotions and as an institution of power that is invested in reorganising affect and emotions. Affect as a theoretical lens can help us understand the workings of the state “beyond rationality and governmentality” (Laszczkowski and Reeves, 2018, 7) in a way that pushes against “false consciousness arguments” and opens up space to

16  Introduction explore complex attachments (Gould, 2010, 32). Paying attention to affect and emotions therefore helps us examine more than just the disciplinary power of the state, and to consider how the affective is a “complex, dynamic, and resilient reality that structures both opportunities and challenges for political actors and its constitutive of the acting subjects themselves” (Laszczkowski and Reeves, 2018, 2). In Affective States (2004), anthropologist Ann Stoler argues that the political and social policies of colonial authorities were embedded in the management of affective states and in the technologies of affective control (2004, 6). Stoler shows that harvesting certain “affective habits” was at the core of colonial political projects (Stoler, 2004, 8). Within this line of thought, the role of the state is not only as Gramsci suggested to “educate consent,” but also to create the needed affective dispositions for that consent and to cut the affective attachments that would hinder it. “Statecraft was not opposed to the affective, but about its mastery” (Stoler, 2004, 9–​10). Similarly, Mateusz Laszczkowski and Madeleine Reeves (2018, 2–​3) argue for the important role that affect and emotions play in transforming the state and producing political imaginaries and subjectivities. “The affective charge of the state” is implicated in both the everyday lives of its citizens as well as in exceptional encounters that could alter the affective regimes that inform and even consolidate state power. This literature builds on and complements contributions within political anthropology on the state and its presence in the everyday lives of its citizens (Laszczkowski and Reeves 2018, 2). My conception of the state in this book converges with Harders’s approach of “state analysis from below” (Harders, 2018, 414). Following Gupta (1995), Harders (2018, 414) conceptualises the state as a “space of contestation and power struggles” that is most present in local encounters. I build on this, actively engaging with literature that unveils the state in the everyday. The Egyptian revolution presented a crisis of legitimacy for the state and a moment that challenged affective modes of governance. It was an opportunity for citizens to renegotiate their feelings about the state and subvert an affective regime that was built on cultivating and manipulating fear for the purpose of affective control. I want to focus on certain narratives that correspond to two moments that were turning points in the life of Maspero neighbourhood and the political trajectory of the Egyptian revolution. The first is a fear of Islamists that culminated in creating the needed affective dispositions favourable to the execution of the Rabaa massacre, which dramatically changed the political path of the revolution and state-​society relations at the local level. The second is the narrative of the unruly, uncivilised and even ungovernable urban masses that manifested itself in the baltagi (thuggery) discourse. My empirical material shows that through mobilising these affective discourses, the state was able to accomplish three main endeavours: firstly, the disruption of all forms of “affective solidarity” (Juris, 2008) that were developed and celebrated, particularly during the eighteen days of the Egyptian revolution, and especially among leftists, Islamists, Coptic activists, and members of the middle classes and urban

Introduction  17 poor; secondly, the creation of affective dispositions needed to justify mass violence against protestors; and thirdly, the re-​enacting of the state as a strong, unquestioned power that does not tolerate mass protests or open opposition. In chapters three and four, I follow in greater detail the state tactics and discourses that aimed to mobilise these affective registers. Central to configurations of the ‘terrorist’ and the ‘thug’ is the construction of an urban poor masculinity. Gender

Scholars such as Diane Singerman (1995), Farha Ghannam (2013), Paul Amar (2011) and Salwa Ismail (2009) have contributed substantially to studies on the lives and politics of the urban poor in Cairo and have centred local constructions of gender relations and negotiations between the urban poor and national gender norms within their work. Amar (2011), Ismail (2009) and Ghannam (2013) have also considered constructions of urban poor masculinity. Ghannam argues that masculinity in the Middle East is still “under-​ studied, and under-​theorized” (Ghannam, 2013, 5–​6). Ghannam asserts that the absence of serious scholarly engagement on masculinity in the Middle East has been coupled with an antagonistic public discourse on Arab and Muslim men (Ghannam 2013, 4–​5). Amar’s analysis is along similar lines. He describes Middle Eastern men as “hypervisible subjects” (Amar, 2011, 40). In this vein, men in the Middle East “are portrayed either as a threat to be crushed or enemies to be subjugated and controlled” (Ghannam 2013, 5). The lack of critical studies on Middle Eastern masculinities is also reflected in affect studies: “While feminist and queer theory were in on the ground floor of developments in affect studies, masculinity studies has been much slower to develop relations to affect” (Reeser and Gottzén, 2018, 149), even though scholars acknowledge “affect is a key element of subjectivity and should be factored in to all wings of gender studies” (Reeser and Gottzén 2018, 151). In addition, Western philosophy has an inherent binary that equates men with reason and women with emotions. Professor of gender, sexuality and women’s studies Todd Reeser, and expert on men’s studies and violence Lucas Gottzén, have identified a “Cartesian split between body and mind, in which men are inherently associated with reason. Philosopher René Descartes also clearly differentiated between body and soul and between materiality and immateriality, associating women with the former and men with the latter. Men have since become connected to rationality, while women are tied to the earthly, the corporeal, and the irrational” (Reeser & Gottzen 2018, 147). Ghannam (2013) also recognises this binary and argues against what she calls the “over-​ embodiment” of women in Western media and academia and the “disembodiment” of men. “By ‘disembodiment’ I mean the tendency to equate men with mind (‘aql), culture, reason, honor, and public life, while offering little (if any) discussion of emotions, feelings, or bodily matters” (Ghannam 2013, 4). To address this imbalance, Ghannam centres structures of feeling6 within her book (Ghannam 2013, 2). She explores the changing emotions of her interlocutors

18  Introduction regarding the political situation in Egypt and notes the prominence of discourses on thuggery. In a similar attempt to acknowledge the importance of studying the nexus of emotions, masculinity, and political transformation, Salwa Ismail (2013) argues that feelings of anger and humiliation experienced by male urban poor youth in their interactions with the state over the years have been central in shaping their political subjectivities. Both Ismail (2009) and Ghannam (2013) highlight the spatial specificities of exploring manhood in a city like Cairo and reify the ways in which the city defines manhood (Ghannam 2013, 10–​11). It is essential to adopt an “intersectional” approach when studying urban poor masculinity. According to Ghannam (2013, 8), this can help us understand how male subjectivities intersect with patriarchy and capitalism (Ghannam 2013, 8). Ghannam asserts that class and gender are particularly key to understanding constructions of identity, the cultivation of desire, and the disciplining of bodies. Both masculinity and femininity are gender projects that are shaped by discourse, ideology and culture, and are influenced by historical changes (Connell, 2001). The moment of revolution in Egypt presented an opportunity for shifts in normative gender relations and the demarcation of bodies. Several analysts, in their reactions to 25 January 2011, have pointed to a “crisis of masculinity” in the Middle East. This is in part due to media reflections attributing the uprising of Arab youth to their “sexual frustration” and “failure to fulfil their manhood” because of socio-​economic conditions. (Paul Amar 2011, 37). I do not find such a perspective to be particularly helpful in this context. Rather, I prefer to adopt a viewpoint similar to Connell’s (2001), who maintains that masculinity is merely a configuration in a larger system of gender relations; therefore, it is not a “crisis” per se, but rather a “transformation” or “disruption” in masculinity within a wider crisis in the entire gender order. Sherine Hafez argues that in light of the revolution the patriarchal bargain is crumbling, and that there is a reconstruction of masculinity in Egypt taking place (Hafez, 2012, 40). Hafez believes that young, marginalised Egyptian men, those who have least access to patriarchal benefits, attempt to differentiate themselves from their female counterparts and so assert their masculinity in extreme ways (2012, 40). Egyptian scholar Zainab Magdy (2012) notes that “women became women again,” as the gender hierarchy was restored very hastily. Less than a month after the revolution, a clear message was conveyed to women: you are no longer needed, go back to your ascribed gender roles (Sholkamy 2012). Magdy also points out that whenever the revolutionary momentum was revived, conveniently “women became Egyptian” again (Magdy, 2012). Attempts to restore gender norms have often escalated into violence against revolutionaries and women. I do not argue in this book that a radical change took place in the gender order in Egypt, nor was there a redefinition of masculinity. I propose, rather, that a closer examination of gendered narratives linked to the baltagiyya can be useful in better understanding local politics and may help to explain the urgency with which the state sought to quickly reinstate the historical status quo.

Introduction  19 Subjectivity

Clare Hemmings (2005, 2012) and Yael Navaro-​Yashin (2012) have productively explored the relationship between affect and subjectivity. Their work defies individual and rationalist paradigms and stresses relational and intersubjective approaches to understanding subjectivation processes that centralise felt experiences. Navaro-​Yashin questions the predominant train of thought within Western philosophy that equates subjectivity with human interiority. She deconstructs this paradigm, arguing that “affect is to be studied or detected not only in the interiority or inner worlds of human beings” (2012, 22). She stresses the importance of studying affect and subjectivity together (2012, 24) and proposes an intersubjective approach that looks at the development of human subjectivity in interaction with exterior factors—​some that are abstract, such as culture, and some that are material, such as the lived environment. Navaro-​Yashin’s emphasis on the relation between human subjects and their lived environments builds on Spinoza`s work. Navaro-​Yashin proposes the “affect-​subjectivity continuum” as an approach to studying affect and subjectivity not only as interior human processes, but rather in terms of its interconnectedness with nature (2012, 27). Hemmings (2012) highlights the importance of felt experience in shaping people’s judgments and consequently their subjectivity (Hemmings, 2012, 150). According to Hemmings (2012), affect is important in the transformation of political subjectivities. She sees politics as “that which moves us” (2012, 151), specifically from a state of “affective dissonance” (affect that overwhelms one’s being with a desire for change) to “affective solidarity” (the connections made with others around this transformative desire). In his work on the affective dimensions of protest, anthropologist Jeffrey S. Juris describes the transformative potential of large mobilisations, which he argues produce deep emotions, affective ties, and new subjectivities (2008, 63). Feminist scholar Teresa Brennan (2004) ties rationality to individuality and stresses that studying the transmission of affect is about understanding the intersubjective, the relational and the collective. Political scientist Salwa Ismail (2012, 2013) discusses the intersubjective processes that led to the development of an “oppositional subject” within collective action in Egypt. Ismail notes how certain emotive experiences, such as humiliation, anger and hatred at the government, can cement a collective (2012, 438). She further notes, “[m]‌y argument is that popular patterns of activism in Cairo are anchored in forms of everyday interaction between popular forces and agents of government, which, in turn, have shaped the urban subjectivities that entered into the making of ‘the people’ as the subject of the Revolution” (2013, 866). Ismail examines the formation of oppositional subjectivities in the context of neoliberal, socio-​political developments, more specifically increases in informal housing and employment alongside intensifying state security measures (2013, 866). She argues that “popular forces” constitute an oppositional subjectivity:

20  Introduction ‘Popular forces’ is the category used in studies of the Arab Middle East to refer to diverse social actors who are distinguished primarily from the dominant social, political, and cultural elites. These actors, though neither homogenous nor forming a singular entity, are seen to draw on common social and cultural frames of reference and to share a degree of socio-​spatial proximity, occupying city quarters conventionally referred to as ‘popular quarters’ (al-​ahyya’ al-​sha‘biyya). Further, al-​Sha‘b (the people) and al-​ Quwwa al-​Sha‘biyya (popular forces) are the terms used in Arabic to denote non-​elite but socially diverse actors. Both terms have acquired a dense and rich symbolism through a long history of use, from referring to agents of anti-​colonial and emancipation struggles, to the somewhat romanticized bearers of cultural authenticity and social valor, or, with sometimes stigmatizing intent, to ‘the people’ as an uncultured mass that is either apathetic or prone to violent outbursts. […] ‘the subaltern’ and ‘the popular’ are mutually inscribed categories in the sense that if subalternity is about the subordinate subject’s assumption of agency, ‘the popular,’ as identity, similarly does not escape power practices and related normative and material hierarchies that cast it as subordinate. In this sense, ‘the popular’ preserves identity as an element central to practices of domination and contestation. In fact, this identity enters into the making of the oppositional subject; that is, it is an element of political agency. (Ismail 2013, 867–​869) Such work is essential in bringing affect and emotions into discussions of political protest and the production of subjectivities. Building on the work of these scholars and my own empirical material, I understand subjectivation in this book as a process that is constantly recurring and being reshaped between one’s own interior self, the lived environment, and existing structural conditions. In this research, I look at subjectivity as it develops within a collective and study the role of felt experiences in shaping these subjectivities. My research has shown that the emotional and affective dynamics of the eighteen days of the Egyptian revolution (the “affective register of the revolution”) activated an already existing “oppositional subjectivity” (Ismail 2013) that enabled actors, particularly the urban poor, to participate in the revolution in great numbers. In the same vein, it is important to acknowledge the interconnectedness between the attack on the affective register of the revolution and the unravelling of this oppositional subjectivity. Since my understanding of subjectivity begins with collective, felt experiences, and looks outward to interactions between subjects and their built environments, it is necessarily to emphasise that the reshaping of this material environment, the undoing of collectives and the erasure of the affective charge of the revolution is an attempt to reshape this oppositional subjectivity. The increased interest among scholars in studying subjectivities in the wake of the Arab revolutions in 2011 was dominated by a motivation to examine political and social transformations and is understandable given the historical juncture. The works of social movement scholars Benski and

Introduction  21 Langman (2013) and sociologist Sari Hanafi (2012) are a case in point. Benski and Langman’s work builds on Touraine’s ideas of the construction of the subject. According to this school of thought, becoming a social movement is essentially about problematising one’s internalised values and unlearning mainstream realities: It is the gesture of refusal, of resistance, that creates the subject. It is the more restricted ability to stand aside from our own social roles, our non-​ belonging and our need to protest that allows each of us to live as a subject. And subjectivation is always the antibook of socialization, of adaptation to a social role or status. (Touraine in Benski and Langman, 2013, 533–​534) Benski and Langman argue for the importance of the emotive experience in subjectivation processes, but their notion of subjectivity is individual and unidirectional; they imagine subject formation only in transformation (Benski and Langman, 2013, 536). Sociologist Sari Hanafi (2012) also builds on Touraine’s notion of subjectivity and argues that the Arab revolutions ushered in a new form of political subjectivities based on a “reflexive individualism” that is greatly shaped by the politicisation of the actors involved, with particular reference to youth groups (Hanafi, 2012, 203). Hanafi asserts that political subjectivity was expressed not only by the toppling of the regime but also by transformations to individuals (Hanafi, 2012, 205). My own research, however, suggests that this kind of focus on the development of individual subjectivities in the aftermath of revolution can obscure an understanding of how subjectivities develop beyond resistance, specifically how “oppositional subjectivities” (Ismail, 2013) are deconstructed. I do not intend to propose a linear and deterministic view of how subjectivities are shaped and reshaped. On the contrary, studying affect alongside subjectivity questions the classic notion of a disciplinary power that shapes subjects, and instead puts forward a view of subjectivation processes that are more fluid, complex, collective and intersubjective. To sum up, the theoretical framework of this book positions the work of affect theorists (Navaro-​Yashin 2012, Gould 2010, Hemmings 2005, Thrift 2008) in conversation with scholars on politics from below (Harders, 2013, 2018) and everyday politics (Singerman, 1995; Bayat 2012; Ghannam, 2013), particularly the politics of the urban poor in Cairo. This theoretical endeavour has the potential to yield innovative insights into the politics of the urban poor through exploring “oppositional subjectivities” (Ismail, 2013), local constructions of masculinity, the relation between the urban poor and their built environment, as well as how state power operates through affect to erase materially and ephemerally empowering emotional histories. These four facets are interlinked in the making and the unmaking of the politics of the urban poor. For instance, the development of an “oppositional subjectivity” is key to the subjectivation processes of the urban poor in the city and is built

22  Introduction through regular interactions with state agents and corresponding emotions of anger and humiliation (Ismail, 2013). Moreover, the rhetoric of the state that is used to justify Cairo’s changing urban landscape constantly refers to the urban poor as thugs (baltagiyya), and these narratives around thuggery are imbued with an understanding of urban poor masculinity. In addition, the affective attachments that residents have to their neighbourhoods are constitutive of their politics and activism. This theoretical approach builds on Navaro-​ Yashin’s suggestion of considering affect, emotion, subjectivity and materiality from the inside-​out, and to not relegate affect, emotions and subjectivity to studies of purely interior and individual matters. In the case of Egypt, and more specifically my case study, I begin with this relation of the urban poor to their neighbourhoods and propose a more radical approach to looking from the outside-​in. I examine the political consequences of the erasure of urban poor neighbourhoods and how this reconfigures subjectivities to trace and understand how affect and emotions are as much individual and subjective as they are sanctioned, regulated and designed in urban landscapes by those in power. Methods and methodology I begin this section by addressing my positionality regarding this book. Moreover, I tackle my main methodological inspirations, namely affective and feminist methodologies. I briefly explain the methods I have used in data collection, some of the empirical challenges I faced in researching affect and emotions, and the strategies I utilised to overcome these obstacles. Finally, I show how I used narrative analysis as a productive method to interrogate my empirical data. Positionality

I have a personal and political affinity to the research questions posed in this book. I am Egyptian, born and raised in Egypt. I was present among the masses in Tahrir Square on 25 January 2011, and I have since been preoccupied with understanding the trajectory and implications of the Egyptian revolution. The intense feelings that I experienced in Tahrir Square still live with me to this day: the impulse to take to the street despite the threat of being arrested, assaulted or killed by security forces; the fear I felt when I first walked into The Square, as this was the first time I participated in a protest; the sense of safety and security I had being among the masses; the anticipation and anxiety I experienced as I lived and followed the unfolding events of the eighteen days; and the euphoria when President Hosni Mubarak was ousted. Having been there among The People and experiencing all these emotions enabled me to better understand and explore the affective and emotional dynamics of The Square. I was able to follow my interlocutors’ narratives, to understand on a deeper level, and to relate to what they experienced. I started my fieldwork in 2016, and

Introduction  23 by that time public discussions were focused more on aspects of the counterrevolution. Restrictions within the public sphere and the crackdown on activists meant that I had to be careful while conducting my fieldwork. Additionally, the focus of my research, Maspero Triangle, was under scrutiny due to government plans to remove the entire neighbourhood. I grew up in a neighbourhood similar to Bulaq Abu al-​Ila where Maspero is located, so I was to an extent able to blend in during my visits. I was mindful, however, of consulting with my interlocutors before every visit so as not to put them in danger. Besides security concerns, my gender and class played an important role during my fieldwork—​ at times they served me, but at others they were a limitation. Working predominantly with young men meant that I had to adhere to certain gender norms and be aware and attentive to the limits of transgressing them. For instance, most of the coffee shops (qahwa) we used for meetings in the neighbourhood were largely male spaces; at times I was the only woman in them. Being from outside the neighbourhood, however, allowed me to push some gender boundaries that may have been more difficult for women from the area. Upon learning that I grew up in a neighbourhood like Bulaq, my interlocutors’ perceptions of me shifted and the kinds of conversations we were able to have changed. I followed the lives of my interlocutors as they lost their homes and their neighbourhood and was personally inspired by their activism and the struggle against forced evictions. I worked with them to reflect their cause, strategies and struggle in the best way possible. Toward the end of my fieldwork, I conducted a small workshop with some of my main interlocutors to share with them my findings. It was important for me to share my thoughts and observations with them, but also to ascertain their feedback. My role in conducting this research was as both an insider and an outsider—​Egyptian but not a resident of the neighbourhood I was studying. I tried to reflect on and acknowledge my privilege, as well as the responsibility I have toward my research participants. Feminist methodology

Feminist epistemology challenges the assumption of objectivity in knowledge production and scrutinises power relations, including the positionality of the researcher in relation to their research. Feminist theory allows me to reconcile my position as a researcher who is also an ‘insider.’ I see my personal stake in this topic as a basis for analysing power relations from a different perspective, not purely as bias (Hartsock, 1983, 285; Haraway, 1988). Standpoint theory tackles the relationship between knowledge production and power structures (Hartsock, 1983) and is essential to producing transformative feminist knowledge. According to Hemmings (2012, 154), the distinct positions people have enable them to produce differentiated knowledge due to their access to local realities (Hemmings, 2012, 151). I embody various vulnerabilities and privileges as a researcher from the global south, an immigrant and aspiring scholar in a Western academic institution. Undertaking this research between Europe and Egypt, attempting

24  Introduction to theorise, understand and explain the realities of the global south from the global north (as problematic as these notions can be) has accompanying advantages and disadvantages. My access to knowledge centres comes with a responsibility toward my interlocutors; and my immigrant status, as a woman from the Middle East, places me in a marginal position in Western academic institutions. Feminist standpoint theory allows me to understand and negotiate these power relations and to critically address my shifting positionality vis-​à-​vis this research. As Hemmings articulates, “knowing differently” and “knowing difference” (2012, 1515) have both been key to this undertaking. My access to local realities has enabled me to “know differently,” while my positionality has given me an opportunity to experience difference. I realised early in this project that my positionality meant that I knew differently and that I knew difference. Standpoint theory has enabled me to express this experience in academic language that is relevant to my research. Although standpoint theory is not beyond controversy, I agree with Harding’s claim that the nature of the debate this theory has stirred is in itself a contribution to feminist knowledge (Harding, 2004). To me, feminist methodology as a differentiated way of knowing and unravelling knowledge is about being aware of my own positionality in relation to power structures and its associated privileges and disadvantages; it is about having a participatory approach that includes and provides space for different voices; it includes the adoption of a critical approach to mainstream theories and looking at gender as an essential analytical category that offers more than just looking at women’s lives. This is not to say that ensuring that women’s experiences are reflected in research projects is not important, but it is important to go beyond this (Harding, 1987; Haraway, 1988). The research process itself, the types of relationships researchers have with their interlocutors, and how they perceive themselves and their research participants, are all constitutive of the kinds of knowledge produced. Affective methodology

This book explores the affective and emotional dynamics of the Egyptian revolution, and how they were appropriated and experienced by residents in Cairo’s popular neighbourhoods. I use affective methodology to produce, collect and analyse data that is attuned to affective and emotive processes. In the edited volume Affective Methodologies, Knudsen and Stage “define an affective method as innovative strategy for (1) asking research questions and formulating research agendas relating to affective processes, for (2) collecting or producing embodied data and for (3) making sense of this data in order to produce academic knowledge” (Knudsen and Stage, 2015, 1). Affective methodology is characterised by creativity and experimentation. However, studying affect empirically comes with its own challenges. Knudsen and Stage identify three main challenges that correspond broadly to what I encountered before, during and after my fieldwork. The first challenge pertains to “asking

Introduction  25 questions and developing starting points” (2015, 4). The way affect is defined plays an important role in what kind of material can be analysed. They recognise the work of scholars such as Sara Ahmed (2004) in critiquing the binaries of mind and body, and challenge the theoretical assumption that affect is pre-​discursive and cannot be traced through language. Sociologist Antje Kahl builds on the work of scholars such as Clare Hemmings (2005), who criticises “the dichotomies of affect and language as well as body and cognition” and argues that affect is traceable because it cannot be dissociated from cognition and language (Kahl, 2019, 8). Deborah Gould (2010, 28) ascertains that it is productive to acknowledge the difference between affect and emotions conceptually; however, she recognises that this can be difficult to uphold while conducting fieldwork. In this book, I ascribe to the work of scholars such as Sara Ahmed (2004), Deborah Gould (2010, 2015) and Clare Hemmings (2005), who blur the strict dichotomies between mind and body, language and affect, especially in empirical work. In this vein, “language would be considered capable of expressing affects, as there would be no inherent contradiction between the categories of language and the categories of social shaping of bodies” (Knudsen and Stage, 2015, 4). Accordingly, the starting point of this book is in alignment with the empirical data I collected in terms of in-​depth interviews and focus group discussions, which I expand on in a later section. The second challenge is about collecting and producing embodied data. “If affect is a bodily state, then the challenge is, of course, to collect material about how this state is expressed or documented” (Knudsen and Stage, 2015, 7). Embodied-​ affective data (Walkerdine, 2010) can be considered in two categories: (1) firsthand data that is indexically linked to the body in affect (e.g., texts or images produced by the affected person), which can be produced either in the heat of the moment (e.g., commenting on YouTube), in situ (such as in the case of Waterton’s and Watson’s text on methods in motion) or remembered (e.g., in a letter about the affect experienced), and (2) secondhand data documenting experiences of bodily affectivity (e.g., video documentations). (Knudsen and Stage, 2015, 8) I used both methods while conducting my fieldwork and collecting data for this book: I analysed first-​hand material that was available thanks to various storytelling and archival initiatives following the Egyptian revolution, such as Tahrir Monologues and the 858 archive. I also worked with my interlocutors to produce first-​hand data. Moreover, I kept a field diary in which I wrote about my own emotions as an important source of data (Punch, 2012). The third challenge is how to trace affect empirically. Knudsen & Stage propose a few tactics that indicate the presence of affect, such as being attentive to “non-​verbal language and gestures of affected bodies,” and acknowledging “outbursts, broken language, hyperbole, redundancy” (Knudsen and Stage, 2015, 8). I have followed these strategies and added to them the importance of noticing how and when metaphors and analogies are used, and in which

26  Introduction instances my interlocutors specifically mention that they find it difficult to put their feelings into words or locate their feelings in their bodies, embodied in experiences of feeling physically sick or having goosebumps. I will expand more on the techniques I used to document this in the upcoming section on data collection. Methods: data collection

I conducted fieldwork in Egypt from 2016 to 2018 through participant observation, in-​depth qualitative, narrative interviews and focus group discussions. I began by asking my interviewees about their participation in the 25 January revolution and subsequent events, paying particular attention to their feelings, their political participation and, depending on the participants, their involvement in local politics. As I progressed, it became clearer that they were more interested in telling me stories about their involvement than just answering my questions. The act of storytelling helped them connect the extraordinariness of the events they witnessed with the normalcy of their daily lives (Murray, 2003, 97); it was a way for them to discuss painful events and convey their emotions, sometimes even in the manner of testimony. Professor of indigenous education Linda Tuhiwai Smith, in her book Decolonizing Methodology (1999, 144), highlights testimonies and storytelling as culturally appropriate methods of conducting research in a way that gives more control and space to the community being researched and enables them to tell their truths. Thus, I shifted to conducting narrative interviews (Flick, 2009, 177), more specifically episodic narrative interviews (Flick, 2009, 185, Murray, 2003, 103), as my questions still revolved around the 25 January revolution. This methodology enabled me to benefit from narrative and semi-​structured interview styles. I started to relinquish some control over the interview process and to listen more actively to what my interlocutors wanted to tell me, rather than interrogate them. I knew it was a difficult time for them to talk about their emotions, dreams, hopes, disappointments and the violence they had witnessed or endured. Storytelling helped them to articulate difficult and confusing moments in their lives and enabled me to listen attentively. The stories I collected give personal glimpses into events, but when woven together, they provide insight into what it felt like to live through the revolution and its aftermath. I conducted fifty interviews and four focus group discussions. I interviewed activists who participated in the 25 January revolution, as well as local leaders in greater Cairo. Moreover, I analysed the online social media presence of Maspero Youth Alliance and Bulaq Abu al-​Ila popular committee (from Facebook pages), video material of activists and observatory data such as attending meetings) concerning the political practices in popular neighbourhoods. The empirical study of affect has invited scholars from various disciplines and perspectives to find new ways of tracing affective dynamics (Knudsen and Stage, 2015). This motivated me to go beyond traditional research methods and experiment with a mix of established methods and new ones. For instance,

Introduction  27 I developed—​along with Bilgin Ayata, Derya Özkaya and Cilja Harders—​an understanding of interviews as “situated affective encounters,” which entails a practice of documenting non-​verbal communication, such as laughter or body language when transcribing interviews, as well as documenting my own feelings before, after and during interviews (Ayata et al., 2019). I conducted focus group discussions of mixed genders to diffuse some of the tensions that were sometimes present in individual interviews, and to create the space to practice some exercises and innovative methodologies for data collection. In preparation for the focus group, I asked participants to each bring an object that reminded them of the eighteen days—​for example a picture, a song, or an item of clothing—​anything that might trigger their memories of that time. I allowed space within the group for each individual to present the item they brought with them, and to explain its relation to the revolution. I also created an imaginary map, whereby each participant could pinpoint where they were during the eighteen days and recount their actions. I collaborated with a researcher and psychiatrist to create a map of 144 distinct emotions, positive and negative and varying in intensity, which I presented to the group to review and use for guidance if necessary. Participants were invited to add to the map if they felt that some emotions were missing. I then presented them with empty cards and asked them to recount and write down their own emotions during the eighteen days. The results of these exercises were very interesting. Each card included around twenty contradictory emotions, ranging from positive to negative and varying in degrees of intensity. Finally, we discussed the cards together as a group. They reflected the intensity and the emotional chaos that participants of protests during the eighteen days felt and showed how difficult it is to create typologies of certain emotions. The data collection process was challenging and filled with obstacles that I have briefly discussed, as well as some of the strategies I used to overcome these challenges. Data analysis

In this section, I explain the ways in which I have interpreted and analysed the data I have amassed. One aspect that runs through the data collection and analysis in this book is my attention to feelings. Gould offers a useful framework for analysing feelings. She suggests researchers should analyse emotions historically, psychoanalytically and affectively: Instead of viewing feelings as telling the truth of ourselves, and the truth of a situation, I am arguing that researchers need to approach feelings—​our own and others’—​historically, psychoanalytically, and affectively. Historically: feelings are context-​bound, meaning their sources, objects, and effects are contingent, unpredetermined, and variable; rather than naturalizing, therefore, we need to consider the range of feeling states that might be in the mix and the effects they might have, given specific historical conditions.

28  Introduction Psychoanalytically: in the face of painful and difficult feelings, humans ward off, repress, deny, and disavow—​and as a result our emotional life is more complex, conflictual, contradictory, and opaque than we usually realize; in the face of our non-​transparency to ourselves, it is important to listen for the painful, the anxiety-​producing, the ambivalent, the discordant, the forbidden, and other emotion-​ridden silences that might lead us to richer, more multifaceted analyses. Affectively: our emotional responses to the worlds we encounter are often amorphous, emergent, a sensing of something rather than a fully formed, known, defined, or even definable emotion; while perhaps more difficult to discern, greater attunement to those inchoate but nevertheless forceful aspects of feelings can provide a more nuanced picture of social life that explores what it is like to be a relational being affected by the world around oneself and affecting it in turn. Approached in this manner, through a historical, psychoanalytic, and affective lens, feelings become a source of knowledge. (Gould, 2015, 169) Reflecting on her own position as a researcher who was involved in the movement she was examining, Gould argues that the researcher’s emotions about the data can help in their analysis (Gould, 2015, 163–​164). Adopting this approach, I explored my own historical, psychological and affective feelings as well as those of my interlocutors. To illustrate further, when discussing the Rabaa massacre that took place in the summer of 2013 with my interlocutors, I encountered resistance to recalling this moment and its implications both from them and within myself. I was aware these feelings were partly shaped by or in reaction to the state discourse that has dehumanised protestors, especially Islamists, and has deflected from security forces’ complicity in the violence committed. This helped me to better contextualise feelings of guilt and responsibility among some of my research participants. On a psychoanalytical basis, I was aware that researching emotions about such a horrific event only a few years after it happened would be a difficult endeavour, and this helped me understand the evasiveness I encountered when discussing the topic, the dissonance within me to approach it, and the open statements of discomfort that my interlocutors expressed. In terms of my knowledge about researching affect, I understood the difficulties my interlocutors had in articulating some of the emotions they had and chose to explore these feelings through storytelling and analogies. I used two main methods to analyse my empirical material: qualitative content analysis (Flick, 2009; Mayring, 2000; Schreier, 2014) and narrative analysis, specifically focusing on “political narratives” (Andrews, 2014). The first step in terms of qualitative content analysis was documentation and data selection. I reviewed the material and selected the most important aspects for analysis based on my research questions and relevant themes, while taking care to ensure a diverse sample. For instance, I made sure that during the data collection and documentation I conducted enough interviews with female interlocutors,

Introduction  29 interlocutors from different geographical locations, and different activists who participated in the revolution during the eighteen days. The second step was to create categories, with the aim of ultimately building a coding frame. The categories I chose were both concept driven, and data driven (Schreier, 2014, 176). Concept-​driven categories included recording affective and emotive experiences during the eighteen days, and a focus on the experience of political participation after the 25 January revolution through studying the popular committees. As I reviewed the material I collected, I developed data-​driven categories, such as the baltagi and the events of summer 2013. Then I went on to develop subcategories based on the material that corresponded to the main categories. I also examined relations between some of the categories, for example the relation between the eighteen days in Tahrir Square and in the neighbourhoods. As I developed the coding frame and revised it in relation to my data, the narrative component of the empirical material became even more obvious. This process allowed me to obtain a holistic overview of the material, to condense the data, and to explore patterns and relations. The coding frame itself, however, was insufficient to show the layers and complexities of the material, particularly regarding some of the stories my interlocutors told about their participation in protests and local politics. Thus, I complemented qualitative data analysis with narrative analysis. This decision was also in line with my chosen data collection method, the narrative interview. Combining two methods of analysis is a practice that has been followed by other narrative researchers (Esin et al., 2014, 207). There is an increasing interest in the study of social movements and political protests, as well as in using narrative analysis to explore the role of storytelling in eliciting political change (Polletta, 2006; Riessman, 2012). Narrative inquiry is a family of approaches that centralise people’s stories. The focus on narrative enables researchers to examine how certain stories are produced, which stories are being silenced, and how narratives come to be accepted or challenged. Narrative research has a humanist and poststructuralist theoretical background that looks at stories as a way of resisting dominant power structures. Thus, narrative researchers usually use this methodology to uncover stories of marginalised populations and to understand their unique position vis-​à-​vis power, for example oral histories of working-​class women. Narrative analysis focuses on the meanings inferred by research participants, but there is no single way of conducting narrative analysis, and no clear guidelines about how to locate stories or which aspects of them to prioritise. Narrative researchers are encouraged to take notes about their interviews, and to include them in their analyses. Recognising and analysing power relations within the interview itself is crucial to narrative analysis, thus, researcher positionality is important when attempting to understand the construction of the story (Andrews et al., 2008; Esin et al., 2014). Narrative research should include the interview as the context to the data analysis process (Esin et al. 2014). Narrative researchers should understand that personal narratives are usually part of bigger historical and cultural narratives, which some scholars refer to as public narratives, meta narratives or macro narratives (Esin et al.

30  Introduction 2014). These are “narratives attached to cultural and institutional formations larger than the single individual” (Somers, 1994, 619). When narrating their stories, participants often use or refer to these public narratives. Political psychologist Molly Andrews defines political narratives as the “stories people tell about how the world works, how they explain the engines of political change, and the role they see themselves, and those whom they regard as being part of their group, as playing in this ongoing struggle” (Andrews, 2007, 8). Andrews believes that narratives are vital in understanding how people perceive political life and their roles within it and is even crucial in examining how politics is being practiced. She also considers national stories about important events to be political narratives. There are macro and micro political narratives that are in constant conversation with each other, whether in contestation or affirmation and acceptance. Sometimes the most prominent political narratives are not directly about politics, rather they are stories through which people explain their identities, their place in the world as they see it, and how they interact with structures of power (Andrews, 2014). Building on the concept of political narratives, I focused on two main types of stories that my interlocutors told during my fieldwork: the first is about their participation during the 25 January revolution, and the second is about their subsequent and/​or preceding participation in local politics. As I reviewed my data, I found many patterns in the stories that people told; in both cases certain events they witnessed and/​or experienced were central in their decisions to take part in protests and usually led to their politicisation. These events were typically accompanied by intense emotions, so focusing on stories about them gave me the chance to further investigate the links between my interlocutors’ emotions and their politicisation. As I traced how these narratives interact with other macro narratives, it became clear to me that these stories are usually told in response to state narratives about the 25 January revolution and the role of the urban poor in the protests, as a counter narrative to the predominant state narrative of the 2011 revolution. This led me to also investigate the stories the state tells about the revolution and its aftermath. For instance, when I asked my interlocutors from Bulaq Abu al-​Ila and Maspero Triangle about their involvement in the revolution and the events that followed, they insisted on showing me and telling me that they were not baltagiyya (thugs) but revolutionaries. This was repeated in other interviews I conducted in popular neighbourhoods and led me to re-​examine how the state narrative about the urban poor is shaping their own story. Overall, my narrative analysis of stories of participation in protests or local politics was productive in three main ways. Firstly, it allowed me to analyse the emotions of the protestors or participants and how they are linked to certain political moments and their general politicisation; secondly, I was able to find patterns in the stories people told about their experiences of interacting with local governance structures, the police, government agencies and other activists; and thirdly, the stories elucidated people’s reactions to state narratives and revealed the most important aspects

Introduction  31 of the stories told by the state from its own perspective. I include some of these stories as data excerpts within the chapters of this book, some at length. Given the current political climate in Egypt and my interlocutors’ insistence on telling their truths, I believe it is imperative to give them the space they deserve as witnesses of historical events and important political moments. Moreover, the writing out of accounts of the 25 January revolution by the urban poor is an important part of this documentation process. Most of the stories that I include in the chapters are representative of other narratives; they present certain patterns of the experiences of the urban poor during and in the aftermath of the revolution. Notes 1 For more information about Egypt´s New Republic: www.rosa​lux.de/​filead​min/​ rls_​uplo​ads/​pdfs/​Ausl​and/​Afr​ika/​AlS​isi_​New_​Repu​blic​_​EN.pdf 2 For more information about the Monorail: https://​engl​ish.ahram.org.eg/​News/​470​ 435.aspx 3 Egypt´s economic crisis: www.ft.com/​cont​ent/​d06a0​5e7-​9e00-​4a61-​a24a-​76e9a​ 621f​6a9 4 This data in this book is based, among other things, on the results of a project that has been running since 2015 in the DFG funded Collaborative Research Center 1171 “Affective Societies” at Freie Universität Berlin. 5 For more on the New Capital see: Bennett, O. (2018). Egypt is building a brand-​new mega capital city. [online] The Independent. Available at: www.inde​pend​ent.co.uk/​ news/​lon​g_​re​ads/​egypt-​capi​tal-​city-​cairo-​archi​tect​ure-​the-​new-​adm​inis​trat​ive-​capi​ tal-​a8521​981.html [Accessed 2 Jan. 2020]. 6 According to Ghannam, “The phrase ‘structures of feeling’ was advanced by Raymond Williams to capture the interplay between the social and personal, objective and subjective, fixed and active, explicit and implicit, and thought and feeling.”

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34  Introduction Ismail, S., 2012. “The Egyptian Revolution against the Police.” Soc. Res. 79, 435–​462. Ismail, S., 2013. “Urban Subalterns in the Arab Revolutions: Cairo and Damascus in Comparative Perspective.” Comp. Stud. Soc. Hist. 55, 865–​894. https://​doi.org/​ 10.1017/​S00104​1751​3000​443 Juris, J. S. (2008). “Performing Politics: Image, Embodiment, and Affective Solidarity during Anti-​corporate Globalization Protests.” Ethnography, 9(1), 61–​97. www.jstor. org/​sta​ble/​24116​016 Kahl, A. (Ed.), 2019. Analyzing affective societies: methods and methodologies, Routledge studies in affective societies. Routledge, Abingdon, Oxon; New York, NY. Knudsen, B.T., Stage, C., 2015. Affective Methodologies Developing Cultural Research Strategies for the Study of Affect. Palgrave Macmillan UK: Imprint: Palgrave Macmillan, London. Laszczkowski, M., Reeves, M. (Eds.), 2018. Affective states: entanglements, suspensions, suspicions, Studies in social analysis. Berghahn, New York. Le Bon, G., 1895. The Crowd: A Study of the Popular Mind. London: Transaction. Magdy, Z., 2012. Egyptian women: performing in the margin, revolting in the centre [WWW Document]. openDemocracy. URL www.opende​mocr​acy.net/​en/​5050/​egypt​ ian-​women-​per​form​ing-​in-​mar​gin-​revolt​ing-​in-​cen​tre/​ (accessed 1.27.20). Massumi, B., 1995. “The Autonomy of Affect.” Cult. Crit. 83. https://​doi.org/​10.2307/​ 1354​446 Massumi, B., 2010. “The Future Birth of the Affective Fact: The Political Ontology of Threat,” in: Gregory J. Seigworth, Gregg, M. (Eds.), The Affect Theory Reader. Duke University Press, pp. 52–​70. https://​doi.org/​10.1215/​978082​2393​047-​002 Mayring, P., 2000. “Qualitative Content Analysis.” Forum Qual. Sozialforschung Forum Qual. Soc. Res. 1. https://​doi.org/​10.17169/​fqs-​1.2.1089 Murray, M., 2003. “Narrative psychology and narrative analysis,” in: Camic, P.M., Rhodes, J.E., Yardley, L. (Eds.), Qualitative Research in Psychology: Expanding Perspectives in Methodology and Design. American Psychological Association, Washington, pp. 95–​112. https://​doi.org/​10.1037/​10595-​006 Navaro-​Yashin, Y., 2012. The make-​believe space: affective geography in a postwar polity. Duke University Press, Durham, NC. Pearlman, W., 2013. “Emotions and the Microfoundations of the Arab Uprisings.” Perspect. Polit. 11, 387–​409. https://​doi.org/​10.1017/​S15375​9271​3001​072 Polletta, F., 2006. It was like a fever: storytelling in protest and politics. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. Punch, S., 2012. “Hidden struggles of fieldwork: Exploring the role and use of field diaries.” Emot. Space Soc. 5, 86–​93. https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​j.emo​spa.2010.09.005 Reeser, T.W., Gottzén, L., 2018. “Masculinity and affect: new possibilities, new agendas.” NORMA 13, 145–​157. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​18902​138.2018.1528​722 Riessman, C.K., 2012. “Analysis of Personal Narratives,” in: Gubrium, J., Holstein, J., Marvasti, A., McKinney, K. (Eds.), The SAGE Handbook of Interview Research: The Complexity of the Craft. SAGE Publications, Inc., 2455 Teller Road, Thousand Oaks California 91320 United States, pp. 367–​ 380. https://​doi.org/​10.4135/​978145​2218​ 403.n26 Sabea, H., 2013. “A ‘Time out of Time’: Tahrir, the Political and the Imaginary in the context of the January 25th Revolution in Egypt [WWW Document].” Soc. Cult. Anthropol. URL https://​cula​nth.org/​fiel​dsig​hts/​a-​time-​out-​of-​time-​tah​rir-​the-​ politi​cal-​and-​the-​imagin​ary-​in-​the-​cont​ext-​of-​the-​janu​ary-​25th-​rev​olut​ion-​in-​egypt (accessed 1.26.20).

Introduction  35 Schielke, J.S., 2015. Egypt in the future tense: hope, frustration, and ambivalence before and after 2011, Public cultures of the Middle East and North Africa. Indiana University Press, Bloomington. Schielke, S., 2014. “A book of unfinished theories: ‘There will be blood.’” Book Unfinished Theor. URL https://​samu​lieg​ypt.blogs​pot.com/​2014/​06/​there-​will-​be-​ blood.html (accessed 12.22.19). Schreier, M., 2014. “Qualitative Content Analysis,” in: The SAGE Handbook of Qualitative Data Analysis. SAGE Publications Ltd, 1 Oliver’s Yard, 55 City Road, London EC1Y 1SP United Kingdom, pp. 170–​183. https://​doi.org/​10.4135/​978144​ 6282​243.n12 Sedgwick, E.K., 1993. Tendencies, Series Q. Duke University Press, Durham. Sedgwick, E. K., 2003. Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy, Performativity. New York, NY: Duke University Press. https://​doi.org/​10.2307/​j.ctv​11sm​q37 Sedgwick, E.K., Frank, A., 1995. “Shame in the Cybernetic Fold: Reading Silvan Tomkins.” Crit. Inq. 21, 496–​522. https://​doi.org/​10.1086/​448​761 Sholkamy, H., 2012. “Women Are Also Part of This Revolution,” in: Korany, B., El-​Mahdi, R. (Eds.), Arab Spring in Egypt. American University in Cairo Press, pp. 153–​174. https://​doi.org/​10.5743/​cairo/​978977​4165​368.003.0009 Singerman, D. (1995). Avenues of Participation: Family, Politics, and Networks in Urban Quarters of Cairo. Princeton University Press. https://​doi.org/​10.2307/​j.ctv​13vd​hnh Smith, L.T., 1999. Decolonizing methodologies: research and indigenous peoples. Zed Books; University of Otago Press; Distributed in the USA exclusively by St. Martin’s Press, London; New York: Dunedin, N.Z.: New York. Somers, M.R., 1994. “The narrative constitution of identity: A relational and network approach.” Theory Soc. 23, 605–​649. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​BF0​0992​905 Stoler, A., 2004. “Affective States,” in: Nugent, D., Vincent, J. (Eds.), A Companion to the Anthropology of Politics, Blackwell Companions to Anthropology. Blackwell Pub, Malden, MA. Taylor, V., 1998. “Feminist Methodology in Social Movements Research.” Qual. Sociol. 21, 24. Thrift, N., 2004. “Intensities of feeling: towards a spatial politics of affect.” Geogr. Ann. Ser. B Hum. Geogr. 86, 57–​78. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​j.0435-​3684.2004.00154.x Thrift, N.J., 2008. Non-​ representational theory: space, politics, affect, International library of sociology. Routledge, London. Tilly, C., 1978. From mobilization to revolution. Addison-​Wesley Pub. Co, Reading, Mass. Tomkins, S.S., 2008. Affect imagery consciousness: the complete edition. Springer Pub, New York. Walkerdine, V., 2010. “Communal Beingness and Affect: An Exploration of Trauma in an Ex-​industrial Community.” Body Soc. https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​13570​34X0​9354​127 Wettergren, Å., 2015. “How do we know what they feel?,” in: Flam, H., Kleres, J. (Eds.), Methods of Exploring Emotions. Taylor & Francis Group. https://​doi.org/​10.4324/​ 978131​5756​530-​21 Winegar, J., 2012. “The privilege of revolution: Gender, class, space, and affect in Egypt.” Am. Ethnol. 39, 67–​70. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​j.1548-​1425.2011.01349.x

2 An affective register of the revolution

Affect and political action This chapter aims to answer two questions through the lens of affect and emotion. Firstly, why do people—​specifically protestors who took part in the 25 January 2011 Egyptian revolution who were not necessarily politically active previously—​protest? The second question pertains to the affective legacy of the Egyptian revolution and how we might understand the aftermath of the uprisings in an affective way. To be able to answer these questions, the ways through which the study of affect can be productive to contentious politics is outlined as well as Deborah Gould’s three main pillars to examine the ways in which affect can help enrich our understanding of political behaviour. Firstly, affect helps us understand human motivation in a way that is more encompassing of the noncognitive or the nonrational facets of behaviour. Gould recognises that political emotions and behaviour can stem from nonrational affective states.1 Political attachments often evolve from incomprehensive fears, anxieties and desires that are not answerable to rational calculations (Gould, 2010, 29). For instance, the chapter unpacks in the sections that follow the impulse of protestors to take to the streets and put their lives in danger as a result of deep affective states rather than calculated opportunism. Secondly, affect sheds light on aspects of social reproduction and social change that are obscured by the rationalist paradigm. According to Gould, power does not only operate through ideology and discourse but also through affect. Those in power constantly attempt to manipulate and foster affective states, while affect in its fluidity usually escapes capture. An understanding of the relation between affect and power can help us examine the workings of power, particularly in creating political attachments that are beyond reason. In this sense, affect can help us better comprehend both the revolution and its countering. Thirdly, affect sheds light on the “emotion work of social movements” (Gould 2010, 33). The following sections explore some of the emotional and affective dynamics of the eighteen days. These dynamics are essential to understanding the moment and its aftermath. Through the narratives of my interlocutors and engagement with affect literature, I discuss the affective impulse to act, affective cycles and the affective register of The Midan. To answer the aforementioned questions, DOI: 10.4324/9781003408741-2

An affective register of the revolution  37 a layered argument is developed based on three main pillars. Firstly, based on the work of Deborah Gould (2009) and Silvan Tomkins (2008), I discuss how affect highlights the noncognitive and nonrational aspects that shape human motivation with regards political mobilisation. I propose an understanding of the political actor not just as a rational actor, but also as a thinking, feeling, sensing and remembering individual. My empirical data shows that there is an affective impulse to act that is triggered during momentous events that calls for an understanding of political action beyond the rational paradigm, which can be too limiting in understanding the affective processes shaping the political decisions of actors. Secondly, these impulses to act are not arbitrary and are tied to the political becoming of actors. Based on Hemmings’ (2005) observations, I argue that the affective impulse to act is embedded in “affective cycles,” which are constantly reshaped through one’s own experiences. For protestors and those who witnessed it, the Egyptian revolution was an influential experience. It has shaped their subsequent politicisation and created its own affective register. Thirdly, I attempt to unpack this affective register, and argue that it continues to shape the mobilisation and demobilisation of actors in Egypt. The affective impulse to act “Taking to the street was an impulse”—​this is how one of my interlocutors replied when I asked her about the moment she decided to go to Tahrir Square. According to Gould, social movement theorists often take for granted the assumption that political protests result from cognitively calculated rational grievances that translate into peoples’ readiness to engage in such movements. Even when studying the role of emotions in protest movements, analysts often rationalise these affective and emotional dynamics (Gould, 2009, 19). In juxtaposition, activists often describe their participation in such protest movements as affective impulses. Building on the work of Silvan Tomkins and Deborah Gould, I argue that we need an understanding of how cognition and affect work together in order to view the protestor not only as a rational actor, but also as a thinking, sensing, feeling and remembering being. This could help us understand how both affect and cognition work in processes of politicisation. It opens up a space for examining the seemingly sudden political impulse to participate in protests, especially under authoritarian regimes, where organised political action is not always possible. According to Gould (2009, 23), affect plays an integral role in shaping human motivation. She argues that it opens up the space for noncognitive and nonrational understandings of political motivation (2009, 26). To illustrate further, the following is a data excerpt from an Egyptian activist, detailing the moment when he first heard the chants of protestors and decided to join the mass protests of 25 January 2011. I woke up to the sound of many people shouting as one. Not shouting but chanting, a very strong chant. A chant I had not heard before. I did not

38  An affective register of the revolution know what they were saying exactly, but of course, I knew what they wanted. I felt my entire body shaking and I was moved. Their sound was as beautiful as the call for Eid prayers. But with Eid prayers, you can get lazy and miss it, but going down this time was mandatory. It was the fastest I would ever jump out of bed and maybe the happiest. In a blink, I was jumping out of bed looking out of the window at the people and opening my closet to grab something to wear. I opened the closet and stood there, what should I wear? I do not have revolutionary clothes… I put on my clothes and ran to the door… My mom stopped me: “Shady! Do not hurt yourself; you know how much I need you.” I promised her not to get hurt, but I did not know if I would be able to keep that promise… I went down.2 What makes one jump out of bed to participate in a protest? What makes one run toward danger and not away from it? How much rational thinking was involved in this decision? There is definitely sensing (hearing the chant), feeling (being moved by the chant), a corporeal reaction (his body shaking), remembering (the sound of Eid prayers), knowing (what the people want, even if he cannot understand exactly what they are saying), and a momentarily decision to act (he jumped out of bed and went down). This is just a sample of many other narratives that describe the decision to join the mass protests as an ‘impulse’—​one that we do not seem to fully understand. The work of affect theorist Silvan Tomkins can offer a nuanced lens through which we can see how cognition and affect work together and feed into our impulse to act. In the following, Tomkins explains that there is more to cognition than thinking. The human being confronts the world as a unitary totality. In vital encounters, he is necessarily an acting, thinking, feeling, sensing, remembering person. Consider one of the simplest examples: One begins to cross a street, sees a car coming rapidly; at the same time one becomes frightened at the danger and steps back to the safety of the sidewalk. Cognition here is more than “thinking.” It consists in relating the car as seen to the danger as felt, to the action of avoiding the danger. It is a momentary environmental, sensory, perceptual, memorial action sequence that is cognitive by virtue of the achieved organized connectedness of these part mechanisms and the information and urgency they conjointly generate. If the automobile had traveled much faster, it would not have been seen in time to be avoided. The rate at which it traveled produced an abstract fear response, innately, but the interpretation that there was a specific danger unless one took evasive action depends in part on connecting the nature of the danger to appropriate action via retrieval from memory of the relevant pool of information. The innate affect of fear produces only an abstract urgency—​that something is happening too quickly—​by imprinting its own acceleration on both the perceived cause and the necessary responses to that cause, interpretive or motoric, since under fear one thinks fast and acts fast. (Tomkins, 2008, 432–​433)

An affective register of the revolution  39 According to Tomkins, cognition is not just the act of thinking. Even the simple decision to move away from a car coming your way involves: sensing the car (seeing), feeling and thinking danger (drawing from memory and other information), and then choosing to act depending on the sense of urgency that is relayed. We tend to internalise these daily practices and ignore their complexities. In vital encounters, however, these complexities may increase and even overwhelm our limited thinking abilities. I want to analyse the above-​ mentioned data excerpt using this example, to try to answer the question: what makes one run from or toward political action? One thinks, senses, feels and acts sometimes concurrently. However, what if a person draws from their memory and relevant pool of information and does not find a referent to danger? They simply do not move. Gould argues that an understanding of the role of affect challenges the argument of false consciousness. She asserts that it is not that people are unable to fathom their interests, rather affective attachments are often more complex than what people’s material realities dictate (Gould 2010, 33). Hence, we do not all see (sense) the car, and even if we all see the car, we do not feel the same way about it (danger), and even if we do, we might think to act differently, informed by our memories and varying pools of information. Thus, the decision to act on that day on 25 January was not only cognitive. The protestor saw the car but walked toward it rather than away, perhaps because of a perceived greater danger—​Mubarak’s regime—​or because the call to action was informed by memory and a pool of information that signalled this to be an opportunity upon which one should act. Another signal or call might momentarily activate an affective response to participate; the actor will suddenly see the danger coming and act intuitively, not irrationally but beyond rationality. This is what makes political uprisings so unpredictable, especially under authoritarian regimes, where organised actions are often crushed. An understanding of political impulses that goes beyond rational thinking can help us learn more about political action. I argue, based on Tomkins’s work, that the political actor is a thinking, sensing, feeling and remembering being. Thus, memory plays a crucial role in informing people’s political decisions. Moreover, any analysis of political action must consider the spontaneity of an impulse that could explain the unpredictability of such uprisings. Political impulses show that the role of feelings and memories is on equal footing with rational thinking. These political impulses can be spontaneous but are not arbitrary. To understand an actor’s motivations for participating in such momentous events through the lens of affect theory calls for a discussion on the autonomy of affect (Massumi, 1995)3 and what affect theory has to offer in terms of understanding of such impulses. On one hand, political impulses can be exemplary of affective freedom, namely the ability of affect to push the human body beyond its societal boundaries. On the other, I do not seek to make an argument for the politicisation of bodies disassociated from their own political and social experiences. The question then becomes, how might we understand such affective impulses with all their unpredictability without suspending the

40  An affective register of the revolution social or ignoring the power relations they are embedded in or stemming from? The dialectical relation between affective freedom and its unpredictability, and between the ability of affect to capture bodies in affective structures is at the heart of Hemmings’ (2005) critique of affect theory and her attempt to reconcile affect theory with the work of postcolonial and feminist theorists—​which I aim to unpack and build on in this book. Hemmings offers a close examination of the work of Sedgwick (2003) and Massumi (1995), who both argue that the ability of affect to break from social structures is what allows it to restructure the social itself (Hemmings 2005, 550). One of the main reasons affect has been celebrated in critical theory is that it helps theorists highlight the importance of the unexpected and the singular in social relations, rather than to purely focus on the narrow binaries of power and resistance. Affect theory sheds light on the nonrational ties that create relations of domination and contain the potential for its countering. Hemmings is critical of Massumi’s notion of the autonomy of affect (2010) and offers a more nuanced understanding of affect as it is embedded in social relations. She uses examples pertaining to gender and sexuality and affective racialisation to show that neither affect, nor the ability to freely imagine affect, is random. For Hemmings, judgement and bodily responses are not oppositional, but rather circular. She builds on Deleuze’s work on the relation between mind and body to show that judgement can be secondary to bodily response, and it can serve to either diminish or intensify the affect associated with it. Judgement, then, links the body with its social world, as it creates political and social meaning that is embedded in larger affective cycles that constantly shape our political becoming. Hemmings defines these affective cycles as follows: These affective cycles form patterns that are subject to reflective or political, rather than momentary or arbitrary judgement. Such affective cycles might be described not as a series of repeated moments/​body/​affect/​emotion/​a self-​contained phrase repeated in time, but as an ongoing, incrementally altering chain/​body/​affect/​emotion/​affect/​body/​doubling back upon the body and influencing the individual’s capacity to act in the world. In this context, reflective or political judgment provides an alternative to dominant social norms. (Hemmings 2005, 564) Hemmings argues that her reading of the relationship between body and mind would call for a return to Tomkins’s affect theory, because it highlights the role of prior affective states and their re-​emergence in imbuing our bodily responses with meaning, rather than affective autonomy. Impulses and intensities that inform our actions are therefore linked to our political becoming; they are not random. Going to Tahrir was a political impulse that was rooted in prior affective processes. Such cycles are ongoing and are related to peoples’ processes of

An affective register of the revolution  41 politicisation as they are constantly mediated by affect. Using Hemmings’ affective cycles allows us to account for the embodiment of affective states, and centralises the body in the narrative, while linking it to its political and social realms. The question then becomes, what shapes and defines the current affective states of political actors in Egypt? I suggest that analysing the affective register of The Midan can help us understand what affective states have been shaping the political becoming of actors since the 2011 revolution. What has been registered on the bodies of protestors because of their experiences? What emotions and affective constellations have been imprinted in the minds of protestors that are relevant to the unfolding of events and might be essential in understanding the future of politics in Egypt? The affective register of The Midan My research shows that the revolutionary events of the eighteen days created its own affective register that has been fraught and fought drastically since the Egyptian revolution. Mona Abaza argues that Egypt has been witnessing a collective moment of erasure and identifies this as one of the manifestations of the counterrevolution (Abaza, 2018). She believes that this erasure is part of an ongoing battle over the narrative of what happened during the years 2011–​13 in all its intensity. Abaza describes these years as being entrenched in magical ephemeral moments. I agree with her observation that a collective erasure is engulfing Cairo in all aspects, from the physical erasure of entire neighbourhoods to the removal of any graffiti that glorifies the revolution, and the outright denial and opposition of any narrative that acknowledges the 25 January Egyptian revolution. However, a pressing question remains of what is at stake and for whom? What is facing erasure? Other than the few physical remnants of the revolution, such as graffiti, which were constantly erased in what Abaza calls “the war of the walls,” what else has remained? (Abaza, 2012). What is left of those magical and ephemeral moments in terms of affect and emotion? I propose an affective register of The Midan as a concept that captures a number of important affective states that played an important role during the “Midan Moment” (Ayata and Harders, 2019) and its aftermath. These affective states were present in most of my empirical data and are recurring themes in literature on the Egyptian revolution, especially that which engages affect and emotion. They include some of the political feelings (Gould, 2009) that were etched into the minds and bodies of protestors and were formative of their experiences. According to Hemmings, “An affect theory is all of our affective experiences to date that are remembered (or better, perhaps, registered) in the moment of responding to a new situation” (2005, 552). Thus, the relevancy of the register stems from the recurrent reinvigoration of embodied affective states. In developing the concept of the affective register of The Midan, I give primacy to the embodiment of affect and the interplay between the body, its lived experiences, judgement and political meaning. Affect theory, especially

42  An affective register of the revolution the definition of affect I adopt in this book (see ­chapter 1) that is based on Deborah Gould´s work (2009, 2010), centralises the body as a medium that experiences and modifies affect and is often marked by it. Moreover, this is an affective rather than an emotional register, as it is not individual; rather, it has emerged within a collective—​between or as a reaction to the masses. These are not accurately definable states and cannot therefore be reduced to a simple description or categorisation of certain emotions. For instance, it is noteworthy that several interlocutors, when talking about their emotions during the eighteen days, referred to sentiments that cannot be expressed in words. They used analogies, stories, and bodily reactions or affective constellations (that is two or three emotions to describe a state or a feeling). The breaking of fear could be considered such an example. It is not fear, nor bravery; it is literally the breaking of a sentiment, but not quite the transformation of it (Schielke, 2015). Some interviewees talked about how the air in Tahrir was different: Is that real? What are all these people? I felt that air here (Tahrir) is different. The smell of air is different. I cannot explain some details. I felt happy, scared and anxious. (Kirollos FGD, 20174) Even years after, I always had a special relationship with Tahrir square. When I used to pass by, I used to feel the same way I felt when I first went to Mecca. This is a holy place and there’s something in the air. (Samer Interview, 2016)5 Thus, in an effort to reflect the nuances of the empirical data and to capture the ephemeral, the emotive and the affective, as well as trace the continuation of certain constellations that came out of The Square, I propose that we examine the affective register of The Square. I argue that this revolutionary affective register can be described through three affective states, namely: (1) The making of “The People” in the famous slogan, “The people demand the downfall of the regime.” I want to examine the coming together of people from diverse political backgrounds, religious affiliations, socio-​economic classes and across the classic gender divide, not just as materiality, but also as a feeling expressed by many; (2) the breaking of fear; and (3) the expansion of political imaginaries of the possible in a repressive postcolonial state. In the following section, I will engage with data and literature to explain in detail each of these affective constellations, which are linked to one another, inseparable, and in many cases enable and recreate each other. As I will further demonstrate, the breaking of fear is enabled through the making of The People, and the expansion of political imaginary is possible because of this breaking of fear. These feeling states do not represent or operate in phases; rather, they are often at work simultaneously, allowing the circulation of a given affective state and its intensification.

An affective register of the revolution  43 The making of The People

One of the most celebrated facts about the 25 January revolution is the sense of togetherness and collectivism, particularly in the early days. The diversity and co-​existence of different actors has been noted and remarked on in literature on the eighteen days and by my interlocutors. Hania Sholkamy describes the eighteen days as “days of class, religious, and gender parity and solidarity” (2012, 168). Sholkamy further illustrates: Sharing sleeping space and food, men and women bracketed their old gender norms, as evinced, for example, by the total absence of sexual harassment and the acceptance of women as equals in the face of the autocracy that was about to be ruptured and decimated. A better illustration of this communal spirit is the merging of a vast array of political ideologies—​left, right, and center—​who organized the rank and file to stand together with few, if any, marks of difference or distinction. (2012, 155) One interlocutor, a Coptic man in his early thirties, describes The Midan as a “blender” that mixed different people together and stripped them of their distinctive markers. Before the revolution, Copts had a phobia of anyone with a beard (a reference to Islamists). I saw this change in The Midan among my friends. They did not care anymore. There was something really beautiful in The Midan, we rubbed off each other. The Midan was like a blender, we started to resemble each other. We stayed together and all of our beards started to grow so you could not tell the liberal from the communist from the Islamist. Even women all looked alike. They were all dressed alike. You could not differentiate who was from a poor area and who was from a classy neighbourhood. These differences did not exist. I did not feel them in The Midan. You would be sitting in a circle discussing issues, in the same circle as a carpenter and a professor of philosophy, and you could not differentiate between them. Those two people were together in one place, discussing a certain topic and no one was making the other feel less valuable. This is one of the things I liked. The question becomes why we did not continue? Why didn’t we replicate this model outside [of Tahrir]? (Kirollos FGD, 20176) The literal translation of the expression “we rubbed off each other” (said by Kirollos in Arabic) is “we took from each other,” but it describes an exchange that produces something new. It literally means that people take from each other until they look like each other. Hence, the metaphor of The Midan as a blender that mixes different ingredients, in this case social components, to create something that is more than the sum of its original elements. Teresa

44  An affective register of the revolution Brennan (2004) coins the term “transmission of affect” to examine a social process that has physiological effects. Brennan argues: The transmission is also responsible for bodily changes; some are brief changes, as in a whiff of the room’s atmosphere, some longer lasting. In other words, the transmission of affect, if only for an instant, alters the biochemistry and neurology of the subject. The ‘atmosphere’ or the environment literally gets into the individual (…) The origin of transmitted affects is social in that these affects do not only arise within a particular person but also come from without. They come via an interaction with other people and an environment. But they have a physiological impact. By the transmission of affect, I mean simply that the emotions or affects of one person, and the enhancing or depressing energies these affects entail, can enter into another (…) At this level, the energetic affects of others enter the person, and the person’s affects, in turn, are transmitted to the environment. Here lies the key to why it is that people in groups, crowds, and gatherings can often be of one mind. (Brennan 2004, 1–​8) Based on Kirollos’ narrative and Brennan’s theorisation, I propose a closer examination of the exchange of affect within collectives during the revolution. This dynamic was central to the making and sustenance of an exceptionally diverse group for eighteen days, and it was key to understanding the unmaking of The People that followed. In discussing the transmission of affect, Brennan highlights how a “new composite” can materialise through interaction in a group. She argues for the importance of examining what such a group can produce: The theory of the transmission of affect is always and already, given this definition, a theory of the group. But it is also a theory of the group based on what is produced by the ‘group,’ as well as the individuals within it: the emotions of two are not the same as the emotions of one plus one. If I emit one emotion and you emit another, we may both of us take onboard the effects of this new composite. The specific waves of affects generated by different cultural constellations could lead to a different and altogether more interesting characterization of stable, as well as temporary, group phenomena. (Brennan 2004, 51) Another interlocutor, a woman activist in her early thirties, tries to explain the productive power of this group dynamic in Tahrir. I was there and I saw it and I understood the logic behind it. Those were people who were facing death fearlessly. It’s like you did some sort of filtration and put the most decent people together in one place and gave them

An affective register of the revolution  45 high hopes, empowerment and collective hope and that affected those around them as well. I do not think of this as romanticizing; it was pure logic. If a social experiment was conducted where this was all repeated, they would definitely create a Utopia. For me, there were magical moments. But it was also logical. People did not take to the streets to demand the downfall of the regime, but then someone started chanting and everyone joined in the chants. People were collectively encouraging and empowering each other. And of course, the courage of one individual is different from that of ten people. Ten individual cowards can walk together then suddenly together they become very courageous. At the beginning, we really did not know what would happen. There were no guarantees to our safety of any kind. Afterwards, when the danger and threat of gatherings and sit-​ins being attacked or dispersed passed, everything was different from how it was during the eighteen days. Fear was reduced, and the sit-​ins were infiltrated. People took to the streets and found safety in being together. But that was a different kind of people. The spirit of the eighteen days was never replicated again, even when there were sit-​ins throughout the year. (Amany Interview, 20167) In the above narrative, the group produces courage—​a new composite that is different from the sum of its components. According to the interviewee, Amany, even if individual cowards enter the group from the outset, their fear somewhat dissipates and they collectively produce courage, a completely different element. Brennan notes that studying the transference of affect in group dynamics is not a new field of study, it has its roots in Gustave Le Bon’s work, The crowd: a study of the popular mind (1895), in which he highlights the irrationality of groups and their collectively decreased intellect (Brennan 2004, 53–​54). Theorists such as Charles Tilly (Tilly, 1978) criticised Le Bon for being elitist and racially biased (Brennan 2004, 61), a critique Brennan argues has had both positive and negative ramifications. Drawing on this critique, social movement theorists have created a cognitive bias in arguing for the rationality of groups that falls short when examining the transmission of affect. Brennan asserts: There have been gains in the work emphasizing the rationality of gatherings. There are also losses. The shift to cognitive science in the analysis of the crowd is partly a shift away from the affect that is characteristic of the twentieth century, a shift with its own historical explanation (…) The bias toward the cognitive individual is entirely in line with the prominence of ideas of unilateral self-​containment. If the belief in the self-​contained state as the natural state has hardened, then the social movement literature, however good its intentions, can be read as another instance of the same escalating prejudice. As I said at the outset, it is caught up in the very process it should be analysing. It is caught up in it because the self-​contained individual could only rise to power through severing affective ties, in theory as

46  An affective register of the revolution well as practice. In other words, the idea of self-​containment is tied to the belief that cognition more than emotion, determines agency, and it is not surprising that as the one (self-​containment) comes to dominate in the history of ideas, so does the other (cognition). (Brennan 2004, 62–​63) In opposition to the idea of the self-​contained individual, illustrated by the quote above, is the concept of contagion. There is agreement in the literature, especially in the study of crowds, that contagion of affect and emotions exists (Brennan, 2004). Contagion is particularly relevant for political mobilisation and demobilisation, both as a mobilising tool for social movements and as an outcome of mass protests, with longer lasting implications on the membership of groups. The process of how contagion works is contested, with one theory pointing to emotional entrainment (Brennan 2004, Collins 2004). Interaction Ritual Theory (Collins, 2004) can provide some insights into how entrainment works and what it produces, specifically when it comes to creating solidarity among groups. This may go some way towards explaining the making of The People among a diverse group of protestors during the eighteen days of the Egyptian revolution. Collins describes the Interaction Ritual as having four main factors: physical co-​presence, boundaries between outsiders and people who are part of the group, having a common objective, and sharing a common emotional experience (2004, 48–​49). These factors create feedback loops that reinforce each other. For instance, the common objective and/​or activity will likely create a common emotional experience, and vice versa. Collins explains: The key process is participants’ mutual entrainment of emotion and attention, producing a shared emotional/​ cognitive experience. What Durkheim called collective consciousness is this micro-​situational production of moments of intersubjectivity. The outcome of a successful buildup of emotional coordination within an interaction ritual is to produce feelings of solidarity. The emotions that are ingredients of the IR are transient; the outcome however is a long-​term emotion, the feelings of attachment to the group that was assembled at that time. (Collins, 2004, 49) Collins notes that there are four outcomes of Interaction Ritual: group solidarity, emotional energy, adhering to group symbols and a feeling of morality regarding group solidarity and the group’s symbols (Collins 2004, 49). This model explains how a diverse group of protestors developed group solidarity and became The People through contagion, emotional entrainment and sharing common emotional experiences over the course of eighteen days and through participating in subsequent demonstrations throughout 2011 and 2012 in an almost ritualistic manner every Tuesday and Friday. The model also explains “the experience of collective consciousness and collective effervescence” (Collins, 2004, 49) by many who attended the protests, me included.

An affective register of the revolution  47 Collins draws a relation between the different types of ritual and the kinds of emotional energy they produce, as well as the different levels of solidarity among the groups they forge (Collins, 2004, 53). He makes a distinction between successful and failed rituals, which might be a rather rigid categorisation that is counterproductive to understanding the Egyptian revolution, but it highlights the role of emotion in forging solidarity as well as in dismantling it. Building on Collins, Juris (2008) coined the term “affective solidarity” to describe the ties forged between activists during mass protests. According to Juris, mass direct action elicits strong emotions that foster internal solidarity through collective practices. It is “through collective praxis, rather than discursive unity, that political alliances are forged,” he notes (Juris, 2008, 65). This is perhaps key in understanding how protestors with competing political ideologies can be allies through collective action, thus creating temporary alliances that are highly affective in nature. Facing violence, danger and the threat of death during the early days of the revolution created a certain sense of comradery and familiarity among protestors. The collective existential threat and the experience of protecting one another, or in some cases saving or failing to save a stranger who dies in front of you, created certain bonds. These bonds arguably came with strings attached: heightened expectations among political factions who were historical rivals, and an illusion of “coming together” that may have contributed to the subsequent rift between “seculars” and “Islamists.” This process was not merely spontaneous, as many activists invested in emotional mobilisation ahead of 25 January 2011. Juris expands on Hochschild’s concept of “emotion management” (Hochschild, 1979) to explain: “Emotion is not incidental to activism. Rather, organizers use emotion strategically in order to generate the commitment necessary to maintain participation” (Juris, 2008, 65). My data shows that activists in Egypt were invested in creating a “feeling” space. In the days leading up to 25 January, a few nationwide silent protests were organised in mourning for Khaled Said.8 Though silent, these protests were highly charged with ambivalent emotions, and cultivated an affective state of coming together and feeling together. Moreover, the decision to unify emotive slogans, chants and even flags helped to create a common feeling space with the potential for further mobilisation. One of my interviewees explains: As students we headed to the spots that the ‘We are all Khaled Said’ Facebook page directed us to. The protests were huge in number and were parallel to those taking place in Alexandria. There were at least three or four protests. Tanta was extremely active then, and for the first time, we witnessed activism from groups of young people who were not initially active, nor had any prior interest in politics. And when political movements tried to turn those silent protests into demonstrations, we refused. Security forces were present, but they let us be without clashing with us, because at the end of the day, people were very calmly standing there reading verses from the Quran or the Bible. You cannot imagine how emotional that moment was.

48  An affective register of the revolution Everyone just stood there without knowing each other, then they would go home after they finished reading. (Ammar Interview, 20169) Affective ties were developed through this protest action that were somewhat unexpected. One of the interviewees, a woman in her early thirties, explains how participating in the protests during the revolution gave her the possibility of creating unforeseen emotional ties with people from different socio-​ economic and political backgrounds: I knew the corruption was vast, and thought the solution was in reform, not in revolution. And if it was in revolution, then Egyptians were not cut out for it. When the uprising happened in Tunisia, I was affected by all the emotional turmoil that did not match the way I think. For instance, the man who kept on saying, “Tunisians, Ben Ali escaped,” and the men who kept on saying, “We have grown old waiting for this historical moment.” Such things affected me deeply, but I told myself that Tunisians are different from Egyptians; they are more civilized. I used to think that I couldn’t be part of any mass meeting of Egyptians—​of course, this is not how I think now; they are savages who would want to steal from me or harass me. That was what I thought of The People. On January 25, I was in Ain Sokhna10 with my friends (she laughs). That night, while watching a foreign channel on TV, I saw the way people looked in The Square. I knew my friends were there and I started doubting the way I think. On January 26 and 27, more people started joining the protests and I started feeling like I wanted to join them regardless of if that was right or wrong. And I wasn’t sure who the people I wanted to join were, or what they looked like. I joined the protests on January 28, but I did not manage to get inside The Square because of the tear gas and such stuff. I was not familiar with all that. I suddenly found myself stuck in the middle of those people whom I did not want to mingle with. They were helping me and they even put me first for real. They kept me safe from harm during clashes. At that time, my feelings changed and I started thinking Egyptians are great and my fear of them has no ground. On my way to The Square, I saw a guy with an eye injury bleeding. That was my turning point; there was no return. I was shocked by the level of their impudence. I was angry and afraid, but my anger took over my fear even though I am normally a coward—​I did not want to get beaten or injured and so on. Ever since January 28, I put all my differences aside. The feeling that we do not want that man (Mubarak) took over and nothing he said affected or manipulated me. He had to leave for the sake of the guy whose eye was injured, and the other one who was murdered in Suez, and because of everything else that was happening. (Dina FGD, 2017)11 Butler (2015) explains that in protests, as bodies act together, they claim the public and consequently (based on Arendtian philosophy) the political. Butler

An affective register of the revolution  49 proposes an understanding of an anarchic liminal moment that necessitates a “departure from oneself.” Similar to the account narrated by my interlocutor, these in-​betweens (the unpredictability, the liminality) are what create possibilities of new and different alliances that threaten the status quo and existing power dynamics. I do not, however, wish to reduce such a complex phenomenon to a mere positive or negative signification, nor to suggest that the affective solidarity created in The Midan through collective praxis was inherently positive. What is clear is the potential of collective action and the collective alliances forged in The Midan. What is not perhaps as obvious is how the formation of this solidarity is key to comprehending its unravelling. I have focused predominantly in this chapter on the making of The People as part of the affective register of The Midan. In Chapter four, I will return to this notion to understand the unravelling of The People as part of the counterrevolution. The breaking of fear

A duality of fear and bravery is central to peoples’ decisions about whether to protest authoritarian regimes or not. The problematics of fear, or in this case overcoming fear, is key in both the literature produced on the Egyptian revolution and my interlocutors’ narratives. My own experiences and research support Samuli Schielke’s (2015, 207) account of the revolution and its aftermath, in which he suggests the “breaking of fear” to be one of the most celebrated achievements of the Arab uprisings. “The revolutionary uprising marked a moment when a lot of people stopped walking by the side of the wall and instead boldly asserted their will, point of view, and way of doing things” (2014, 7), Schielke writes, building on Mukhtar Shehata’s work to argue that “broken fear” is an affective state born out of the emotive chaos of revolution: In other words, broken fear is a positively existing sentiment: it is fear, but broken, reconfigured in a seemingly chaotic way. It can be described as an affective complex in its own right that involves anxiety, excitement, terror, courage, unrest, hope, and an attitude of assertively standing up for one’s own point of view. Broken fear as the emotional tone of the revolutionary stormy season does not allow us to neatly distinguish between the positive and negative effects of the revolution. They belong to the same process, the same sentiment. (Schielke 2014, 8) This book takes this argument one step further to ask what kind of fear was broken, as several different kinds of fear seemed to play a role in the revolution and its aftermath. An example is fear of the police state. For many participants this was a revolution against the police (Ismail 2012), made obvious in the choice of Police Day (25 January) as the first day of protests and the burning down of police stations all over the country. This was mentioned several times

50  An affective register of the revolution in my interviews. One of my interlocutors describes what he witnessed taking place against the police in his neighbourhood: We got informed that a young man was killed in Suez. Things escalated to the level that they did not even want us to protest and say no. That made me decide to join the protests on Friday, 28 January 2011. There was a march leaving from Shubra; I joined it and when we arrived, clashes began and we started to be dispersed. There was a massive crowd in Ramses Square. We kept getting dispersed and re-​gathering. So I thought that this was going to happen all day long, until I saw the glorious scene where two young men were pushing a burned police vehicle. [He speaks with awe in his voice.] What was that?! Things were a lot more serious than I anticipated. I went back home, and I discovered that the number of people who protested up until the Friday of Rage was not bad at all. It was the first time in my life that I stood at gunpoint. The clashes started and the day ended, but it was the first time I heard the chant ‘Down with the regime.’ I wasn’t convinced, but I had a gut feeling that something was going to happen. I went home and I was all dirty, so my parents suspected I was in the demonstrations. Later, I found some people pushing a police vehicle; they wanted to dismantle it and sell its parts. The atmosphere was tense with yelling and gunfire. It was the first time I felt scared; not for myself, but for my family. I was afraid something would happen to them and I would not be able to do anything. That night the police forces retreated and the curfew was enforced. The next day, I went to The Square [spoken with astonishment]. There was a huge number of protestors. I felt the air was different there. I felt happy, afraid, and worried. I stayed there for a while then went home to reassure my parents with my presence. And then I went out to take part in the neighbourhood committee and the day was normal. We had a police officer who was infamous for his tyranny. And when the popular committees were formed, there was a scrap merchant who was a parliamentary candidate who offered to provide the committee with weapons he bought from his village. But he said it wouldn’t work without leadership, so we brought that officer. He shot two bullets in the air and people gathered around him. He kept on saying we would stick together until that dark cloud passes. I started noticing that the thugs from all the areas came over and they were armed with weapons and Molotov cocktails. But there was one person that I could never forget. He was carrying a whip and was wearing a sleeveless shirt in that cold weather. There were whip marks on his back. He grabbed my attention because he looked different from the rest. Those people came to kill the police officer and whoever objected would be killed before him. The parliamentary candidate contacted the Armed Forces, so they sent an armoured vehicle. I started hearing people talking about the reason why they wanted to kill him. I kept on waiting for the guy with the whip to hear what he had to say. He said that he didn’t want to kill him; he just wanted to whip him just like the officer whipped him. At that moment, I felt my whole

An affective register of the revolution  51 body shivering—​I don’t know why. After that, there was an exchange of gunfire. I couldn’t imagine that people reached this stage of fury. (Kirollos FGD, 2017)12 As is evident from the narrative above, fear did not dissipate, rather it existed alongside anger, anxiety and a need for vengeance, among other emotions, creating its own “affective complex,” as Schielke (2014, 8) terms. Protestors also overcame the fear of death and showed a willingness to die to advance the cause. My empirical data shows that this emerged from the affective intensity of the group during the eighteen days. One of my interlocutor’s explains further: That was a dream to me; a dream that I heard about and dreamt of for a long time, ever since I was a kid; the dream of our ability to change. There was a feeling of fear present during the eighteen days. We managed to conquer that fear and achieve what we wanted—​from our perspective. (Samer Interview, 201613) Fear was conquered within the collective, and the making of The People (as discussed above) enabled the breaking of fear. Another interviewee explains: The thugs arrived amidst the clashes that were taking place. They arrived from the side of Qasr El Nil Bridge, and there were two armoured military vehicles, which the soldiers hid inside and utterly avoided what was happening. The clashes continued between the two parties until sunset, and the ‘peaceful’ cheers kept on getting louder until the end of the Adhan (call to prayer), and then the thugs started telling us that they love the country as much as we do, and asked us to let them in The Square, which we refused to do. On the other side, there was a group that attacked anyone trying to access The Square with aid; their job was to make sure that any kind of aid did not reach The Square, whether it was medicine, food or heavy blankets—​they threw everything in the Nile River. The significant clashes continued into the night and until dawn. People were brave and courageous; they got wounded and received medical care in the field hospital, only to get back on their feet and go back to protecting The Square. Some groups throwing fireballs attacked us from the side of the Egyptian museum. And it’s also important to note that there were snipers, fourteen of them, and most of the injured protestors who passed away were wounded by them. (Ammar Interview, 2016)14 The bravery and courage of the protestors that my interviewees recall in the above excerpts is borne out of a relational dynamic that emerged collectively in The Square (Schielke, 2015). It is a testament that groups have more bravery than individuals (Brennan 2004, 62). Nevertheless, there are other types of fear that might not have been broken but rather intensified during the revolution—​most

52  An affective register of the revolution prominently, the fear of Egypt’s demise and collapse. Indeed, fear is multifaceted: as one type of fear is broken, another may intensify. Scheilke suggests there is also a destructive side to the breaking of fear, in which an antagonistic affective complex is constructed around facing a common enemy. In 2013, this was the Muslim Brotherhood (2015, 209). This may explain, he argues, the widespread lack of solidarity with the Muslim Brotherhood that followed the Rabaa Massacre. Nationalistic sentiments that were heightened during the 25 January revolution were mobilised by counterrevolutionary forces to justify the whipping up of other fear and encourage divisions. In chapter six I expand on this idea, using Ahmed’s notion of the affective politics of fear (Ahmed, 2004). It is not my intention to negate the breaking of fear, nor to argue against it; rather, I wish to acknowledge that parallel to this affective complex, another type of fear linked to the revolution, namely a fear for Egypt (maybe even because of it), was simultaneously growing. Expansion of the political imaginary

“I had the feeling that I could do anything. Not us, not The People, but that I personally can do anything” (Dina FGD, 2017).15 This is how one of the interviewees, a woman in her early thirties, describes her feelings in the aftermath of the ousting of Mubarak. This is a feeling that I personally experienced in The Square, and which was repeated several times in the interviews I conducted. Such feelings have been critiqued in hindsight by both supporters of the revolution and those who opposed it as being naïve. I refuse, however, to dismiss the feeling of possibility as being solely romantic, and I argue for its centrality in the dynamics of the moment and in the process of its countering. Hana Sabea (2013) argues that a “critical imaginary” has been opened up by Tahrir, and supports the importance of the potentiality of this imagination: ‘Tahrir’ as a time out of time, as a critical imaginary has become even more important as January 25th, 2012, became reality. The prospects of achieving that which ‘Tahrir’ stood for may seem precarious and under attack, and yet the cracks, the potentials and the imagination are even more important in Egypt today, much as they are world-​wide. (Sabea, 2013) Accordingly, understanding the feeling of the “expansion of political imaginary,” or that of possibility with all its naïveté, is crucial to understanding the revolution and its aftermath. In this vein, Hannah Arendt’s notion of natality and how it relates to political action can be insightful, especially when thinking of the Egyptian revolution as a “youth led” revolution, as it has been dubbed by several scholars. According to Arendt: Action has the closest connection with the human condition of natality; the new beginning inherent in birth can make itself felt in the world only

An affective register of the revolution  53 because the newcomer possesses the capacity of beginning something anew, that is, of acting. In this sense of initiative, an element of action, and therefore of natality, is inherent in all human activities. Moreover, since action is the political activity par excellence, natality, and not mortality, may be the central category of political, as distinguished from metaphysical, thought. (Arendt, 1998, 9) Based on Arendt’s observations and my empirical data, I argue that revolutions need people who are new to formal political dynamics, who are naïve, who seek to interrupt and disrupt and who imagine possibility—​those who have not yet learned that the price you pay might be greater than the reward, or for whom revolution is autotelic or insatiable. This affect might not be enough to change the system, but it is needed to disrupt it, shock it, and open it up to new potentials and possibilities, even for a short time. This creates different affective registers and new opportunities for learning. Naïveté might be crucial to political life, especially political action, as Arendt explains: The life span of man running toward death would inevitably carry everything human to ruin and destruction if it were not for the faculty of interrupting it and beginning something new, a faculty which is inherent in action like an ever-​present reminder that men, though they must die, are not born in order to die but in order to begin. Yet just as, from the standpoint of nature, the rectilinear movement of man’s life-​span between birth and death looks like a peculiar deviation from the common natural rule of cyclical movement, thus action, seen from the viewpoint of the automatic processes which seem to determine the course of the world, looks like a miracle. (Arendt, 1998, 246) According to Arendt, political action can sometimes feel like a miracle, as it goes against the normative processes in which the world is structured. Arendt makes the argument for natality by claiming that: The miracle that saves the world, the realm of human affairs, from its normal, ‘natural’ ruin is ultimately the tact of natality, in which the faculty of action is ontologically rooted. It is, in other words, the birth of new men and the new beginning, the action they are capable of by virtue of being born. Only the full experience of this capacity can bestow upon human affairs faith and hope, those two essential characteristics of human existence. (Arendt, 1998, 245) Interestingly, Arendt specifies two human emotions at the core of human existence: hope and faith. These specific emotions require naïveté and are an important component of the “expansion of the political imaginary.” One needs to have hope that a particular action can and will change the regime, as well as faith in one’s ability to change it, even if one is wrong about the outcomes of

54  An affective register of the revolution this action. According to Tomkins, “opacity and error” (Sedgwick and Frank, 1995, 510) are among the productive functions of affect as a motivational system. Tomkins illustrates: The achievement of cognitive power and precision require a motivational system no less plastic and bold. Cognitive strides are limited by the motives which urge them. Cognitive error, which is essential to cognitive learning, can be made only by one capable of committing motivational error, i.e., being wrong about his own wishes, their cause and outcomes. (Tomkins in Sedgwick & Frank (Eds.), 1995, 511) Sedgwick and Frank elaborate further: Thus it is the inefficiency of the fit between the affect system and the cognitive system—​and between either of these and the drive system—​that enables learning, development, continuity, differentiation. Freedom, play, affordance, meaning itself derive from the wealth of mutually nontransparent possibilities for being wrong about an object—​and by implication, about oneself. (1995, 511) Thus, political naïveté is a function of the affect system, one that is equally essential for political action and cognitive learning alike. Much like my interviewee who recounted a feeling of, “I can do anything,” another interlocutor told me: I have been in politics since before the revolution, but the time that I felt in my life most fulfilled and had the highest self-​esteem was in 2011. Simple people used to say that now the country is ours so we all had this feeling. This is our victory, our generation’s victory. We are the generation that changed Egypt. (Samer Interview, 2016)16 Butler (2011) criticises Arendt’s concept of natality as it relates to speech and action through highlighting the limitations of its gender politics. Butler argues that Arendt’s view reaffirms the boundaries of the public and the private, namely that the public sphere, which is the realm of the political, is designated for men, while the private is for women and all those excluded from the body politic. Butler (2011) highlights these boundaries of exclusion, but she also builds on Arendt to expand the limitations of the possible. She offers a model that is not necessarily a complete departure from Arendt, but sets conditions for how the political realm, specifically through protest, might be expanded. She explains: We must appear to others in ways that we ourselves cannot know, that we must become available to a perspective that is established by a body that is

An affective register of the revolution  55 not our own. And if we ask, where do we appear? Or where are we when we appear? It will be over there, between us, in a space that exists only because we are more than one, more than two, plural and embodied. The body, defined politically, is precisely organized by a perspective that is not one’s own and is, in that sense, already elsewhere, for another, and so in departure from oneself. (Butler, 2011) Butler’s argument relates to my interlocutor’s narratives in the following way: there was possibility for the expansion of the imaginary, the feeling of the possible, and a degree of self-​fulfilment that occurred within the collective, through relational processes. This happened through processes of departure from the self that resulted in appearing in a new way to others and even to oneself. Through this collectivity of appearance, of relationality, of experiencing the affects of the moment, the breaking of fear and the expansion of possibility became a reality. Conclusion To sum up, this chapter argues that affect theory is productive in examining three main aspects of the 25 January Egyptian revolution. Firstly, it offers a more complex understanding of human motivation and political behaviour that can help us explore the impulse of previously non-​politicised actors to participate in the revolution. Secondly, it highlights the workings of power beyond ideology and discourse and shows us a different mechanism through which power operates (Gould 2010, 29–​33); I expand more on this notion in chapter four. This can help us explain the affective potential of the revolution and the role that affect plays in its countering. Thirdly, affect allows us to think more deeply about embodied subjectivity by centralising the body and its affective experience as a determinant for “subject formation” (Hemmings 2005, 550). Thus, we can envision the importance of the affective experience in Tahrir and its potential for altering subjectivities. Building on the above, this chapter puts forward an argument that accounts for the affective aspects of participation in political protests, the workings of power and embodied formation of subjectivity. It argues that, for many protestors, taking to the streets on 25 January 2011 was an affective impulse. This understanding of political behaviour can offer a different prism through which we can look at the nonrational aspects of political action. Moreover, it argues that an understanding of the affective experience in Tahrir, what I refer to as an “affective register of The Midan,” can help us trace the changes in the workings of power in Egyptian politics as it operates through affect. In this chapter, I elaborated in detail on the embodied experiences of protestors through the concept of an affective register. I will discuss the ways in which the Egyptian regime has used the affective register of The Midan to counter the revolution and maintain its grip on power in more detail in an upcoming chapter, as well as how the Egyptian revolution as an embodied affective experience shaped the subjectivities of thousands of protestors.

56  An affective register of the revolution Notes 1 Deborah Gould defines affective states as “These emergent, inchoate, not yet articulable ways of feeling” (2009, 27). 2 YouTube (2019). I woke up to one chant. [online] Available at: www.yout​ube.com/​ watch?v=​Kwc2​t3aq​I78&t=​62s [Accessed 15 October 2019]. 3 According to Massumi: “Affect is autonomous to the degree to which it escapes confinement in the particular body whose vitality, or potential for interaction, it is. Formed, qualified, situated perceptions and cognitions fulfilling functions of actual connection or blockage, are the capture and closure of affect. Emotion is the intensest (most contracted) expression of that capture-​and of the fact that something has always and again escaped” (1996, 228). 4 Focus group discussion, Kirollos, Cairo, 21 January 2017. 5 Personal interview, Samer, Cairo, 17 May 2016. 6 Focus Group Discussion, Kirollos, Cairo, 21 January 2017. 7 Personal interview, Amany, Cairo, 1 November 2016. 8 Khaled Said was a young man who was beaten to death by two police officers in 2010. Activists created a Facebook page protesting his brutal murder and called for nationwide protests. 9 Personal interview, Ammar, Cairo, 10 November 2016. 10 This is a coastal city in Suez governorate that has several middle-​class resorts. 11 Focus group discussion, Dina, Cairo, 21 January 2017. 12 Focus group discussion, Kirollos, Cairo, 21 January 2017. 13 Personal interview, Samer, Cairo, 17 May 2016. 14 Personal interview, Ammar, Cairo, 10 November 2016. 15 Focus Group Discussion, Dina, Cairo, 21 January 2017. 16 Personal interview, Samer, Cairo, 17 May 2016.

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3 Moving out of the square

Revolt in the neoliberal city The previous chapter, identified the most prominent affective states that shaped the dynamics of Tahrir Square during the eighteen days, based on empirical data. The question addressed in this chapter is how these emotive and affective experiences have been lived in the local context, specifically in a neighbourhood adjacent to Tahrir Square –​Bulaq Abu al-​Ila. Moreover, I examine how the breaking of fear, the coming together of The People, and the expansion of political imagination (see Chapter 2) were translated and appropriated by local residents and became conducive to transforming local politics in this neighbourhood. Asef Bayat argues that, in many ways, ordinary citizens were even more radical than revolutionary activists in grasping and acting on the demands of the revolution, citing local activism in urban quarters (Bayat, 2017, 179). In this vein, and based on my research, this chapter shows that intense affective and emotive experiences in Tahrir Square led to the activation of a prior existing “oppositional subjectivity” (Ismail 2013). This was manifested in the revamping, albeit temporarily, of local politics and the development of different forms of activism on the local level. This chapter examines the increased activism around urban rights in Maspero Triangle as well as in other neighbourhoods threatened with complete destruction or the eviction of residents. In the case of the Maspero Triangle, my data shows that local activists benefitted from their participation in the Egyptian revolution and were able to more effectively build alliances and mobilise people for their cause as a result of this experience. Residents exerted pressure and engaged in various forms of activism following the revolution that created an opportunity for them to fight eviction and engage in conversations about development of the neighbourhood. This was the main goal of the “Maspero development project.” The project, however, was never fully realised. The closure of the public sphere in Egypt after 2013 was also reflected in the local context, with many of my interlocutors identifying the summer of 2013 as the moment the state regained its control over their neighbourhoods and closed any space for activism. In 2018, the Maspero Triangle neighbourhood was completely demolished. DOI: 10.4324/9781003408741-3

60  Moving out of the square A brief history of the Maspero Triangle neighbourhood is outlined in this chapter, including how the revolution was lived and experienced there. Examples of local activism following the eighteen days are highlighted including some of the strategies deployed by local communities to fight for their rights. Finally, I examine the demolition of the area and the relocation of some residents to Asmarat.1 Understanding the interplay of the affective and the material is central to this book. In proposing an argument that highlights the importance of the affective and emotional dynamics of the revolution, I do not wish to disentangle these affective dynamics from the material space in which they circulate. Yael Navaro-​Yashin (2012) argues for an understanding of the phantasmatic in unison with material space (2012, 5). Navaro-​Yashin believes that any endeavour to disentangle the material from the affective is futile. To her, the phantasmatic has a material quality and vice versa (2012, 10). In a similar vein, it is also important to consider the relation between affect and the spatiality in which these dynamics are manifested, if one is to fully study the affective register of the revolution. Thus, in this section, I expand on the realities of urban life in Cairo in relation to the evolution of contentious politics. Several scholars have argued for the centrality of urban life to the protests in Egypt (Bayat, 2017; Ismail, 2012). Bayat even signalled a spatial turn in the literature (Bayat, 2017, 117) that was inspired by the Arab revolts. Yet, it seems that the politics of space is still understudied (Bayat, 2017; Gunning and Baron, 2014). Scholars of everyday politics or street politics have discussed the reasons why modern cities are spaces where contentious politics develop (Bayat, 2017, 2012, 2013; Ismail, 2012). According to Bayat (2012, 111), the implementation of “Economic Reform and Structural Adjustment” (ERSAP) in the Middle East since the 1990s gave rise to the “neoliberal city,” which is shaped by a market-​ driven urbanity. Bayat (2012, 110) defines neoliberalism as the ideology that promotes the freedom of the economy from state regulations and advocates for corporations and individuals to pursue their self-​interests with the belief that the invisible hand of the market will be able to regulate it accordingly. The spread of the neoliberal logic in cities around the Middle East produced cities that are driven by the interests of the market and not by residents. The decline of the public sector and gradual removal of subsidies on basic commodities, as well as the retreat of adequate public services, has left the urban poor in need of NGOs, charity organizations and private corporations to provide them with basic necessities, such as health care and education. Moreover, governments in the Middle East have been consistently pushing out the urban poor from city centres in order to sell the land to investors so they can build luxury apartments and hotels that cater to tourists and local elites. According to Bayat (2012, 113), the rise of unemployment has pushed people to resort to an informal economy that takes place predominantly on the streets. Thus, as the streets become the workplace of many residents of the city, they develop another meaning and function for the urban poor. Bayat believes that appropriating the streets is a strategy used by the urban poor to expand out of their

Moving out of the square  61 cramped informal areas. “It is in such outdoor places where the poor engage in cultural reproduction, in organizing public events—​weddings, festivals and funerals. Here, outdoor spaces serve as indispensable assets in both the economic livelihood and social/​cultural reproduction of a vast number of urban residents” (Bayat, 2012, 115). These modes of neoliberal urbanity, coupled with the governing of illiberal regimes, pushes the urban poor toward streets politics and tension with the authorities in public space, as they often have no other avenues to practice politics.2 The conflict usually arises when the urban poor refuse to follow ascribed state regulations for being in public space, often prompting daily confrontation with agents of the state. This conflictual relationship harbours the roots of dissent, Ismail (2013) argues. The Egyptian state responded to the expansion of social and economic autonomy of the urban poor by increasing surveillance and police presence in informal areas. “Police carried out regular and diverse campaigns in popular neighbourhoods with the goal of imposing control of space and managing the population’s conduct and activities. Accounts of encounters with the police reveal the development of a particulate structure of feelings, to which humiliation is central” (Ismail, 2013, 871). These daily encounters bred an oppositional subjectivity among the urban poor, and prompted successive attempts by the authorities to discipline them (Ghannam, 2002; Ismail, 2013). In Remaking the modern, anthropologist Farha Ghannam (2002) discusses Sadat’s policies to modernise Cairo, which led to the removal of 5000 families from Bulaq Abu al-​Ila to popular housing projects during 1979–​1981, as part of a larger policy to demolish all of Bulaq. The location of the popular quarter overlooking the Nile, adjacent to Tahrir Square, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the radio and television building, and close to Zamalek (an upper-​middle-​class) neighbourhood, made it visible to foreigners and tourists, which Sadat saw as an embarrassment. This was part of a policy aimed at beautifying Cairo to suit the preferences of Western visitors and upper-​class Egyptians. Moreover, the value of the land was on the rise and the state saw an opportunity to sell it to investors and to replace the popular quarter with luxury buildings and hotels (Ghannam, 2002, 31–​32). Yet, as several scholars have noted, there was more to the story of the removal of ishash al-​Turguman (The Turguman shacks) than just economic gain and modernisation. During the Bread Riots of 1977, when demonstrators protested the rising prices of living expenses and chanted against Sadat and his policies, some protestors who were chased by security forces hid inside ishash al-​Turguman. It was impossible to reach them, because the streets were too narrow for police cars, highlighting the difficulties of policing popular areas, and criminalising the residents of the neighbourhood in Sadat’s eyes for hiding communist protestors from the state. Ghannam uses this story to explain the layered logic of the state that still guides its relocation policies. The story of the removal of ishash al-​Turguman is still important to the people of Bulaq. Several of my interlocutors narrated versions of it to me. They believe that Sadat was visiting one of the buildings of the state newspapers that are adjacent to the area, looked down from the window at the neighbourhood

62  Moving out of the square and commented that the “shacks” were embarrassing and should be removed. The narrative goes that just like this, the fate of 5000 families living in the area was determined. Interestingly, what replaced ishash al-​Turguman was not luxury apartments or big hotels, but a parking lot, because no one wanted to invest in this area. It seems that the often-​highlighted economic gains behind relocation policies are only part of the story. The disciplining of Cairo and its popular quarters is an understudied part of the reasoning behind relocation policies. I argue that this is the case even more after the revolution, when the popular quarters played a crucial part in defying the state, aiding protestors and confronting security forces. When I first started my fieldwork in 2016, the Maspero Triangle neighbourhood was still there, with its small alleys, narrow houses, children running around, small shops and busy coffee houses. The first time I entered the area I felt the warmth of the neighbourhood, coupled with a sense of insecurity that never leaves me as a woman walking on the streets in Cairo. Since young men from the neighbourhood accompanied me, I was welcomed. I was met by curious glances, with residents enquiring as to why I was there and whether I was a journalist, an engineer, someone from the city council, or a researcher. These inquisitive looks never bothered me, as I was born and spent part of my childhood in a popular quarter (manteqa sha’abya) similar to Bulaq Abu al-​Ila where Maspero Triangle is located. I drank tea with the young men in several of the coffee shops in and around Maspero, attended some of the meetings the Maspero Youth Alliance organised, and listened to people’s grievances, hopes and dreams. Less than two years after I started my research, the whole neighbourhood was demolished. I went and visited the empty piece of land that once was a bustling neighbourhood, and it was as if nothing was ever there. I had known that the neighbourhood was under threat, but I never thought state action could be this robust, especially given that plans to remove it stretched back to the 1980s. The revolution intensified a political need for the state to rapidly find a solution to the problem of Cairo’s popular quarters, including Bulaq. Ghannam argues: Relocation is produced by certain economic and political inequalities and is part of the state’s attempts to control the production of urban space and objectify its hegemony in physical forms. (…). Resettlement is central to the rearrangement of power relationships and a manifestation of many of the economic and political changes that Egypt has experienced. Studying relocation as part of the continuous struggle over urban space, I argue, reveals many of the political mechanisms that restructure urban space and avoids reducing such factors to attempts to solve some basic problems related to housing, hygiene, or poverty alleviation. (Ghannam, 2002, 40) Relocation and resettlement policies, as Ghannam illustrates, are essentially a political tool in the hands of the state, used to police the population and

Moving out of the square  63 reconfigure power arrangements. The Maspero Triangle neighbourhood is only one of the 870 informal settlements around Egypt, in which around 12 million people live, at least half of them in Greater Cairo (Amnesty International, 2011, 11). The need to effectively discipline and police urban space arose again with greater urgency after the role played by the urban poor during the 25 January revolution. The regime attempted to deconstruct the politics of the urban poor through forced reconfiguration of their livelihoods, not just space but connections, solidarities, and support. A brief history of Maspero Triangle Maspero Triangle is located in the south of Bulaq Abu al-​Ila district in downtown Cairo, adjacent to Tahrir Square and two ministries, the Egyptian Radio and Television Union headquarters and the Foreign Affairs Ministry. Maspero Triangle is a historic area dating back to the 1400s, connecting Khedeval and Islamic Cairo. The northern part of Maspero is an extension of Bulaq Abu al-​Ila neighbourhood, which was built in the Mamluk era, while the southern part of Maspero is an extension of Khedival Cairo, which was built in the 1800s (Khalil, 2018; Madd Platform, 2015). Many residents were keen to highlight the history of the area and did so in their interviews with great pride. In the 1970s, the government sold the land to investors from the Gulf. Over the years, the neighbourhood had expanded to house around 14,000 inhabitants (Madd Platform, 2015). The earthquake in 1992 affected Maspero Triangle; several houses needed repair, but the government refused to grant maintenance licenses to owners and tenants. One of the residents of Maspero Triangle recounted to me his experience in trying to repair his house: They have ingrained in the people the idea that the neighbourhood has been already sold. Since we were children, we have been hearing that the land is sold, this was meant to prepare us for evacuation. This plan has been over fifty years in the making. There is an unannounced coalition between investors, government officials, people in the executive branch from the local council and the Cairo governorate and the police force that aims to evacuate people from Maspero Triangle. Three main companies bought the land and financed this endeavour. A Kuwaiti company, a Saudi company and another called Maspero. The Maspero Company is a public holding company comprised of Al-​Ahly Bank, Bank Masr and Misr Insurance Holding Company. In addition, Maspero Triangle was featured in Gamal Mubarak’s project Cairo 2050 that targets all of Cairo’s popular quarters from Corniche El Mazlat to Corniche El Maadi; they will evacuate all neighbourhoods along the Nile Corniche. We were scheduled to be evacuated two months before the revolution. This was all part of the ‘no-​maintenance plan.’ Since 1992, we were not allowed to repair our houses. Whenever I went and asked in the local council or in the governorate about the possibility of renovating my house, they said it was prohibited. When I asked why, they said because

64  Moving out of the square this area is under planning. They gave us no further information (…) The plan was that the house falls on your head so that they can empty the area around the houses that have fallen. This way they can empty the Triangle and sell it to the companies. In 2008, two houses fell on people due to lack of repairs. Whoever attempted to repair their houses was penalized and could face prison. To live safely in this country with your children, you risk being punished. (Mohamed Interview, 2016)3 As old buildings collapsed, the government was able to slowly seize land, until 2008, when two things happened. Firstly, the General Organization for Physical Planning (GOPP) released a plan to change the urban landscape of Cairo called “Cairo 2050,” supported by the United Nations Development Program (UNDP) and United Nations Human Settlements Program (UN-​Habitat). The document proposes a vision of Cairo modelled after other international plans, such as Paris 2020, London 2020 and Abu Dhabi 2030. It envisions future Cairo with high-​rise buildings, luxury hotels, touristic areas and office tower blocks. What this modernisation would essentially mean for the urban poor living in historic areas or downtown Cairo is relocation to provide space for foreign investors to develop their mega projects. For instance, according to the Cairo 2050 plan, Maspero Triangle would become “Manhattan in Cairo,” with touristic zones and office tower blocks, while its original residents would be relocated to the city’s peripheries (Madd Platform, 2015; Amnesty 2011, 19). It is noteworthy that Cairo 2050 did not end with the fall of Mubarak; rather it was merely updated to become Cairo 2052 (Deknatel, 2012). Urban scholars heavily criticised the plan, from its top-​down planning approach, to the prioritisation of investors’ interests over those of residents, vague relocation plans, and the blatant intensification of already existing socio-​economic inequalities in the city (Amnesty International, 2011; Madd Platform, 2015; Sims, 2010). The second incident that happened in 2008 was the collapse of a massive rock on the residents of one of Cairo’s informal areas, Deweqa, killing at least 119 people (Khalil, 2018; Amnesty, 2011). The devastation caused was massive, and the incident prompted a public discussion on the hazardous situation of Cairo’s slums, in an attempt to put pressure on the government to do something about it. Thus, the Informal Settlements Development Fund was established in 2008 (ISDF). The fund’s board of directors is comprised of the ministers of housing, planning, local development, finance, electricity and international cooperation, as well as three experts and three representatives from civil society and the business sector, who are selected by the prime minister. Housing Minister and Prime Minister Mostafa Madbuly is the current head of the fund, and an executive director is tasked with conducting his business and legally representing him. The ISDF classified 4004 areas, where around 85,000 people lived in 2011, as unsafe based on international criteria set by UN-​Habitat (Khalil, 2018; Amnesty, 2011). According to ISDF,

Moving out of the square  65 the Maspero Triangle neighbourhood was considered an unsafe area due to unsuitable living conditions. As a result, Cairo governorate intensified its forced evacuation of the area. The evacuations, however, did not prioritise the most dangerous areas, but rather the neighbourhoods where investment projects were already planned, which led many residents to believe that evictions were motivated not solely by concerns for their lives, but at clearing these areas for investment projects (Amnesty, 2011, 18). In an attempt to organise themselves and coordinate a response, the youth of Maspero Triangle established “The voluntary alliance of the youth and people of Maspero in defense of the land and housing rights.” In the below data excerpt, one of the founders of the alliance tells the story of how they started: In 2008, two houses fell, and a man, his wife and kids died. This created a lot of anger, so we wanted to take a stance; we started to reach out to officials and to other residents who were already filing lawsuits. We had an idea to establish an organization and we started working on this, we were four or five likeminded young people. People were scared especially of repression because there was no political freedom at the time. We agreed to establish a space for us, we called it ‘The voluntary alliance of the youth and people of Maspero in defence of the land and housing rights.’ Some people thought we were crazy and others thought we would definitely get arrested. But we decided to establish this alliance and see what we could do with the people. We started to talk to the families in Maspero and local leaders and tell them about our ideas and aims. Some people were supportive, and others thought we were crazy. After a few months, we started collecting signatures from the people in Maspero against forced evictions. We started the slogan ‘Yes for development, no to forced evictions.’ We were not against developing the area as long as it developed with us, we were against forcible removal of the people and we started explaining this idea to the people, officials and journalists. We wanted to stay in the area. We collected more than 4000 signatures (…) When we founded the alliance, we started to develop criteria for how to share power in the alliance, and we divided roles and responsibilities. We wanted to have someone from every street or alley so that everyone is represented, and so that what we say reaches every home so we can raise awareness among people, and so that our discussions reach the whole of the Triangle. We had the idea to create a page on Facebook, which was something very important and enabled us to communicate with people in Maspero and outside of the neighbourhood such as journalists and human rights activists. The alliance started to become known as well as the Maspero case. We wanted to be inclusive of everyone in the area and we wanted to be an alliance that is from the people, not an outside organization that speaks on behalf of the people, the alliance was a space that was run by the people in Maspero. (Abdou Interview, 2016)4

66  Moving out of the square Despite community organisation and local activism, Cairo governorate continued evictions aided by a legal framework that gave the state power to evict residents without necessarily providing compensation or alternative housing. Egypt has several laws that allow the authorities to evict people from their homes without sufficient safeguards against forced evictions. In particular, Egyptian law provides for administrative orders to be issued to evict residents from state-​owned land. Article 970 of the Civil Code states: ‘It is forbidden to infringe on [state-​owned property]. In case of infringement the mandated minister has the right to remove it administratively.’ Article 26 of the Law on Local Government states: ‘The Governor may take all measures in order to protect both public and private properties of the state and remove any infringements administratively.’ (…). Egyptian law does not specify a procedure for the administration to follow to implement its administrative decisions, although jurisprudence has established that decisions must be legitimate and in line with the Constitution and law. When the administration decides on an eviction, the local authorities submit a report to the local police requesting its implementation, and the police then undertake a security assessment. It appears that there is no legal requirement for the administration to notify people in writing of eviction decisions. Amnesty International has found that in practice local authorities do not issue formal written eviction notices to residents and keep the eviction orders secret. This completely undermines people’s ability to appeal against an eviction order before it is carried out. (Amnesty, 2011, 29) This legal framework puts residents at the mercy of the security forces when it comes to eviction procedures. Policing youth Evictions, possible evictions and encounters with the police feature prominently in all my interlocutors’ narratives. Evictions intensify clashes with the police in an already highly securitised area. In the following data excerpt, Mohamed, who is a resident of Maspero Triangle tells me about one such encounter: In 2010 they called me at my work and told me that the police are in the neighbourhood evacuating some of the buildings. It was a strange rainy day. I went to the area and found that the police had created a security cordon around the alley where I live. I have been working against evictions from 2001; I have been following this dream for nine years and abandoned all my personal goals. Suddenly I felt that all my efforts disappeared into thin air because of their laws. They threw people’s stuff on the streets. I pushed

Moving out of the square  67 against the officers to break the cordon, I did not care, the dream is over so why should I live. They kept pushing me back until the sheriff saw me. This was the second confrontation between us. The sheriff came and asked me, ‘who are you and what do you want?’ I told him, ‘I live here, and I work as a teacher so that they do not follow me with their security practices.’ I asked him, ‘did you notify the residents that you will come here today and throw their stuff on the streets.’ His deputy replied, saying that they notified the people three days ago. I gathered the people around and asked them, ‘Did anyone receive a notice that the police will come in three days to throw your stuff on the streets?’ They all said no. I contacted human rights organizations and told them that the police are here and that they created a security cordon and that they are throwing people’s stuff on the streets, and that they might arrest some of the residents. They said that they would come right away. When they arrived, I asked them to take pictures and document what happened. The sheriff gave an order to prohibit journalists from coming into the area and taking any pictures. My goal was to mobilize the media to talk about what was happening in Maspero. In late 2010, we were notified that we would all be evacuated and relocated to El Wahat.5 But things slowed down when the revolution erupted, which is something that I still cannot believe until now. (Mohamed Interview, 2016)6 This is just one encounter of many that the residents of the neighbourhood had to endure, and that structured their relationship with the state. The police specifically targeted active male youth, such as Mohamed and Abdou, for being outspoken, reaching out to the media and human rights organisations and mobilising people. Targeting young, urban, poor men is not a tactic that was specific to Maspero neighbourhood, but the threat of eviction intensified the scrutiny. Ismail analyses the changes in state-​society relations in Egypt as the role of the state has changed from welfare provision to securitisation. “Youths in the Middle East, especially young men, have been important actors in oppositional movements” (Ismail, 2009, 224), making them prone to being targeted by the state. Legislation, such as the law on thuggery (qanun al-​baltaga), passed in 1998, has enabled the state to police young urban men in poor neighbourhoods and to conduct police raids in these areas or arrest campaigns. Ismail argues that understanding young men’s oppositional relation with the state is essential in understanding constructions of their masculinity. Young men from Bulaq Abu al-​Ila and Maspero Triangle recounted numerous stories about their encounters with the police. Mahmoud told me about one of his experiences, which resonated with all the other young men, who all said they have had similar experiences. Mahmoud, who is from Bulaq Abu al-​Ila and in his mid-​twenties, was one day walking around downtown when a police officer stopped him and asked him to present his ID card, a practice that is commonly followed by the police and called “suspicion and investigation” (ishtibah wa tahari). Mahmoud presented his ID card to the officer. When the

68  Moving out of the square officer saw the address on his ID card, he asked him if he is from Bulaq, and if so, then what is he doing in Downtown. Mahmoud laughed as he told me the story, because the question is so absurd—​Bulaq is in Downtown, and in fact he was very close to his neighbourhood, just not in it. Ismail notes that these everyday contestations are over “territorial markings” (2009, 225). Based on her fieldwork in a neighbourhood similar to Maspero Triangle, she argues, “For young men, urban space is mapped out in terms of zones of relative safety or danger” (2009, 236). This intimate knowledge of their neighbourhoods and of the back alleys of Downtown Cairo was essential in the 25 January revolution, and enabled local activists to guide protestors on where to go and where to hide in confrontations with security forces. The everyday encounters of young men from popular areas with the state has pushed them into developing spatial identities related to where they live. “The issue of the territorial identity of youth deserves closer attention when examining questions of activism and youth relations with the state. Territorial markings are lines drawn in contest. Thus, to produce a territorial identity is to establish spatial title in relation to others, including the state” (Ismail, 2009, 225). These territorial identities can help explain the affective attachments that the people from popular quarters develop to their neighbourhoods, and the difficulties with eviction and relocation policies, which I will explore in an upcoming section in this chapter. Ismail notes that state strategies to control young men from urban poor areas are embedded in the anti-​terrorism narrative, which establishes a link between the state configuration of the balatgi (thug) and the terrorist. The state’s management of young men draws on its experience with Islamist activism, reworking strategies and practices deployed against the Islamist activists. The Islamist activist as a lawless, violent enemy of the state was, in the ideal type constructions, a young man from popular quarters. The Islamist activists were viewed, in blanket terms, as terrorists. With the 1998 law on thuggery, the Islamist terrorist was replaced by the young baltagi (thug)—​a social terrorist—​as the rising threat to national security. This representation underwrites the official violence inflicted on young men in public. The objective of the police raids on coffee shops, stop and investigate operations, arrests, and beatings are to render the potentially resistant bodies into obedient bodies restrained by fear of physical sanction, public abuse, and humiliation. (Ismail, 2009, 236) The problem of thuggery has been associated in official and media discourses with informal housing and urban poor neighbourhoods. However, the official narrative that frames young men from urban poor neighbourhoods as baltagiyya is often contested by residents of urban quarters who believe that the police are in fact the baltagiyya (Ismail, 2012, 451–​452, Ghannam, 2013). Ismail builds on Connell’s notion of “marginalized masculinities” to explain how the antagonistic relation between the state and urban poor youth structures

Moving out of the square  69 the construction of their masculinity (Connell, 1995, 80–​81). “Marginalized masculinities are inflicted with the humiliation experienced at the hands of agents of the state and with the absence of any shield from state repression such as higher class status” (Ismail, 2009, 231). Consequently, Ismail argues that men often negotiate their “injured masculinity” (2009, 223) by expressing dominance over women through policing their public and private behaviour. I contest Ismail’s argument based on my fieldwork. While the concept of marginalised masculinity can be helpful in capturing the experiences of urban poor male youth, what I observed in the field is young men negotiating their “marginalised masculinity” through building alliances with women who are also oppressed by local patriarchal structures, despite my male interlocutors’ often conservative gender norms. This might be attributed in part to the revolution, which opened up more space for young people and women to play a bigger role in their communities. In the upcoming sections, I elaborate on how the revolution has altered local dynamics. The revolution in the neighbourhood In 2011, the Maspero Triangle neighbourhood was one of the most militant, among many in Downtown and Old Cairo (Ismail, 2013), in its defence of the occupation of Tahrir Square. As it was adjacent to Tahrir, it played a crucial role in sustaining The Square during the eighteen days. Adham, a resident of Bulaq Abu al-​Ila, and one of the founders of Bulaq’s popular committee, describes the role of this committee during the revolution: Our role during the ‘Friday of Rage’ on 28 January 2011 was to facilitate the mission of the people who wanted to reach Tahrir Square. We were considered the centre, anyone who wanted to reach The Square had to pass from here, and the police were hammering us. We were helping the people to get there and telling them about alleys and other streets they could go through so that they do not get lost. The same thing happened in Maspero Triangle. (Adham Interview, 2016)7 In the data excerpt below, Abdou, one of the founders of Maspero Youth Alliance remembers the early days of the revolution: The triangle was with us (the revolutionaries). This was obvious on 28 January; the area became a big hospital for protestors due to its proximity to the square. There was no food left in stores, all the medication was used up from the pharmacies and all the small clinics opened their doors for the injured. You feel that the revolution started from here. The entrance to Tahrir started from Maspero Triangle, the protestors and the revolutionaries had an area to protect them. Protestors had a place to go and hide if they were injured or if they needed anything and they felt that the people of

70  Moving out of the square Maspero were with them because these people also experienced injustice. On 24 January 2011 Maspero Triangle and Bulaq Abu Al-​Ila were the first to clash with security forces. Maspero became a refuge for activists and revolutionaries. From 24 to 28 January we did not go home, and people came from other informal areas to support us. We were all scared, the clashes were huge, and it was the biggest clash against the Ministry of Interior. All the people in the neighbourhood were together as one. (Abdou Interview, 20168) The neighbourhoods of Bulaq Abu al-​Ila and Maspero Triangle were not an exception. The contentious acts of people in urban quarters were crucial in sustaining the occupation of Tahrir Square. Ismail (2012) highlights the role of the urban poor, particularly in defying the Egyptian police during the eighteen days. Marching in large numbers and forming million-​man/​woman processions were spectacular acts of the revolution as experienced and seen in Tahrir. Yet other activities that were crucial to the success of the first phase of the revolution were given less visibility and prominence in reporting and writing about the revolution. These activities took place in popular quarters and targeted the police directly. While large numbers of protestors poured into Tahrir and other public squares, many residents of popular quarters took their grievances and defiance to police stations and detention centres. In the first few days of the revolution, 99 police stations were burned down and many detention cells were opened and detainees let out. The bulk of the police stations attacked were located in Cairo popular quarters such as Helwan, Imbaba, Bab al-​Shi’riyya, Bulaq al-​Dakrur, al-​Mattariyya, and al-​Gammaliyya. The same pattern can also be noted for Alexandria and other cities where large mobilizations took place. It is also important to underscore that in these clashes with the police, there were many fatalities among the protestors. According to local activists, a small number of the protestors killed during the days of Tahrir were in Tahrir. The majority were in popular quarters. (Ismail, 2012, 445) Official accounts claimed police stations were set ablaze by baltagiyya (thugs). Ismail contends this claim, arguing this action was actually rooted in popular anger (Ismail, 2012, 445). Residents of popular quarters whom I spoke to confirm this. One of my interlocutors, Nora, a woman in her late thirties who lives in al-​Mattarriyya, noted that most of the police stations that were burned during the early days of the revolution were notorious for detaining and torturing residents of popular neighbourhoods. Abdou, my main interlocutor in Maspero Triangle, was always proud of the fact that the residents of the neighbourhood protected all major facilities around the area, including the

Moving out of the square  71 Egyptian museum. The only buildings that were burned were the police station and the National Democratic Party (NDP, Hosni Mubarak’s party) headquarters. These practices were crucial in exhausting the security forces and keeping them away from Tahrir while the occupation was still in its early days. Ismail argues that the battles of urban poor neighbourhoods that were fought around Tahrir were essential “to draw attention to the place of popular quarters in the geography of resistance, and to the spatial inscription of popular modes of activism” (2012, 446). Ismail highlights the role of Bulaq Abu al-​Ila among other urban poor areas during the early days of the revolution: As noted earlier, the clashes with the police in popular quarters facilitated the movement of protestors and their ability to proceed to Tahrir and other central city squares. This was particularly true in the case of Bulaq Abu al-​Ila. Processions from Ramsis’ Al-​Fath mosque, situated north of Tahrir, went through Bulaq Abu al-​Ila to avoid heavy security presence on Ramsis Street, the main connecting road. The protestors marched on Sharia Bulaq al-​Jadid, where they were joined by local residents. During the chases while entering Tahrir, or when engaging in clashes to force a retreat of the security forces from Tahrir, Bulaq Abu al-​Ila offered refuge and shelter and its residents blocked their streets in the face of advancing security officers. In later accounts, when Bulaq Abu al-​Ila inhabitants found themselves accused of sectarian assaults on the sit-​in in front of the Radio and Television Building at Maspero, they would remind everyone of their role in the Tahrir battle and their historical record of patriotism dating back to the period of French colonial conquest of Egypt. As in Gammaliyya, on January 27, Abu al-​Ila residents engaged in street warfare with central security soldiers. In the early days of the revolution, they raised banners demanding social and economic rights and they also removed the photos of New Democratic Party figures from the area. Then, the demands were harmonized with the slogans of Tahrir and became focused on the fall of the regime. When the central security forces attempted to enter the area with armored vehicles, the protestors, who included many local residents, repelled them, throwing stones and Molotov cocktails at them. Streets of Bulaq Abu al-​Ila, such as Sharia Abu al-​Ila al-​Jadid, Na’im and Sabtiyya, became veritable war zones, according to press reports. Bulaq Abu al-​Ila has a long history of antagonism and conflict with the police. Residents have been subject to much pressure to give up title to their homes to make way for multinational construction investment projects in the area. To speed up their dispossession, residents were denied permits to rebuild their homes or repair them so as to prevent their collapse. The municipality ordered the demolition of some homes and the municipality police was in charge of the implementation of the orders that occasioned stand-​offs over the few preceding years. The translation of locally grounded antagonism into an engagement with national protest and revolutionary action, witnessed in

72  Moving out of the square Gammaliyya and Bulaq Abu al-​Ila, could also be observed in new popular quarters such as Bulaq al-​Dakrur. (Ismail, 2012, 448) Ismail’s account of the role of Bulaq Abu al-​Ila during the early days of the Egyptian revolution resonates with my empirical material and my interlocutors’ narratives. The importance of Ismail’s account is that it highlights the role of the urban poor neighbourhoods in the Egyptian revolution. It shows how local grievances and years of confrontation with the police enabled local residents to manoeuvre in relation to security forces. Moreover, it highlights how the revolution was a moment when local contestation corresponded with national revolutionary action. The burning of police stations and the participation of the urban poor in the revolution brought back to the forefront the discussion around the baltagi. Ismail argues, “[t]‌he policing of young men from popular quarters as a category of dangerous population finds its rationale in the construction and reinvention of the baltagi (plural baltagiyya) as a socially disruptive and potentially criminal subject. During the revolution and its aftermath, the question of baltaga (thuggery) and baltagiyya [thugs] gained greater public prominence” (Ismail, 2012, 450). Many Egyptians considered the pro-​ Mubarak supporters who attacked Tahrir Square on 2 February, in what has been called the “Battle of the Camel,” to be baltagiyya or police informants (Ismail, 2012, Ghannam, 2013). The question of who is considered a baltagi and who is not has been recurrent in public discussions throughout the revolution and its aftermath, with the state increasingly framing protestors as baltagiyya, especially urban poor protestors (Ismail, 2012, 453). In response, people from urban poor quarters have repeatedly narrated their role in the revolution as a way to counter official discourses that paint them as thugs. Ismail explains how feelings of humiliation in daily encounters of the urban poor with the police have become essential in the creation of an “oppositional subjectivity” (Ismail, 2012, 457). I draw attention to the affective associations of ordinary citizens’ encounters and relations with the police as constitutive elements of their subjectivities and as informing their modes of action. My analysis of the people’s rising up against the police looks into the structure of feelings that develops in interaction with the police and that has come to guide the acts of protest and resistance during the “Tahrir days” and in their aftermath […] The experience of being humiliated in encounters with the police underpins affective dispositions such as anger, disdain, and revulsion toward the police. (Ismail, 2012, 438) Ismail makes a connection between feelings and affective dispositions and the development of political subjectivities during and following the Egyptian revolution. “I suggest that such experiences, and the structure of feelings that develop in and from them, enter into the making of an oppositional subject

Moving out of the square  73 who may act alone or in concert with others at a given moment” (Ismail, 2012, 440). Ismail extends her argument from individual to collective subjectivity, commenting on the constitution of “The People.” “Al sha’b, the collective subject of the revolution, was constituted in the coming together of social forces and individuals formed as oppositional subjects in interaction with the police” (Ismail, 2012, 458). My empirical data supports Ismail’s argument. In the following data excerpt, Abdou narrates an account of the role of the Maspero neighbourhood in the early days of the revolution that highlights feelings of anger and the fight with the police: The people described what was happening as a fight with the police, which I really supported; I saw the oppression that people felt from arbitrary arrests and the repression of Mubarak’s regime. The people snatched the opportunity that was created by the mobilisation of 25 January youth. It was as if the people were waiting for this moment but they did not know the way, they took the opportunity and then they continued the struggle. They took the fight to the streets. They continued the struggle in their popular (sha’abi) style. Young people were killed and injured, and this increased people’s anger. The people started to look for ways to resist, from a stone to cutting off roads to using Molotov to burning down police cars. The clashes started in Bulaq Abu al-​Ila on 24 January, as it was on the frontlines of Tahrir. In my opinion, the clashes that took place between 24 and 28 January exhausted security forces and forced them to withdraw on the night of 28 January. Maspero and Bulaq were considered the home of the revolutionaries (bayt al-​thuwar). The protestors came to find all the homes opened for them if they were injured or needed anything. If a woman was injured, she could go to one of the homes, rest with the women, and they would give her something to wear if her clothes were torn. By 28 January, there was nothing left in the supermarkets or the clinics of the neighbourhood. […] Bulaq Abu al-​Ila became part and parcel of the revolution. The revolutionaries were living in it. The people saw the repression with their own eyes. This created more anger and this anger developed into a mass of solidarity (iltiham) against the regime. (Abdou Interview, 2018)9 Abdou mentions people’s anger toward injustice and police repression as a vehicle for solidarity among protestors and between protestors and people from the neighbourhood. This narrative supports Ismail’s argument regarding the creation of oppositional subjectivity through the revolution. My data builds on this notion, but also considers feelings of solidarity that were triggered by shared repression. In chapter two, I discuss at length the “affective register of the revolution,” with its three main elements: the coming together of The People and the development of affective solidarity (Juris, 2008) among protestors, and its centrality in the success of the early days of the Egyptian revolution; the breaking of fear; and the expansion of political imaginary. In

74  Moving out of the square the above data excerpt, Abdou mentions that the urban poor capitalised on the opportunity provided by the revolution, and then continued the struggle in their own way. The upcoming section looks at how the urban poor attempted to embed the revolutionary struggle in their own neighbourhoods through renewed local activism around urban rights. It expands more on the Maspero Development Project and its alternative approach to how the government was dealing with urban housing problems and informal areas. Maspero project The 2011 Egyptian revolution revitalised, albeit temporarily, local politics, and  the youth of Maspero Triangle capitalised on this mobilisation to advocate for their cause. An urban researcher who has been analysing Maspero Development Project commented on the situation in the area after the revolution: The people in the area have been really humiliated since 2008, but after 25 January they held a lot of pride in the fact that they helped many protestors who were hiding and running from the police during the eighteen days. […] The people from Maspero community started to organise sit-​ins and demonstrations and block roads only after the revolution; they would have never been able to do that before the revolution. (Mustafa, personal interview, 2016)10 Following the collapse of two houses in December 2011, the Maspero Youth Alliance organised a protest on the Nile Corniche. One of my interlocutors explains: “On 4 December 2011 a house fell due to their [the government’s] policies and the non-​maintenance rules, and some people died. We held a meeting with the people in the area, and on 9 December 2011, we held a peaceful protest in front of Maspero building” (Mohamed Interview, 2016).11 The Maspero Youth Alliance took up practices that were widespread in Egypt following the 25 January revolution, such as holding peaceful protests, and used them to advance their cause. Moreover, the residents of Maspero Triangle were inspired by the myriad graffiti campaigns around downtown Cairo that asserted the right to the city and spread political messages. Thus, shortly after the revolution, the Maspero Youth Alliance, together with graffiti artists, activists and residents of Maspero, initiated a graffiti campaign, writing on the walls of their neighbourhood and inscribing their slogan: “Yes to development, no to forced evictions.” The use of graffiti has been a way through which the alliance can spread their message in a participatory manner with people of the neighbourhood. The powerful slogan shows their clear position toward development of the area. They do however stress, as they have mentioned to me repeatedly, that any development project should be centred around the inhabitants of the neighbourhood and should work for the local community not against them. The use of graffiti by the alliance is just one example of neighbourhood-​based groups utilising tactics used during the revolution and appropriating them to

Moving out of the square  75 serve a cause. In many cases, local communities believed that their struggles were part of a wider revolutionary struggle and should not be side-​lined or seen as the demands of the few (metaleb fea’awya). Following the mobilisation of Maspero residents, in 2013, Madd Platform, a team of independent urban scholars and architects, started a participatory project in cooperation with the Egyptian Centre for Civil and Legislative Reform (ECCLR) and Maspero Youth Alliance to explore the possibilities of developing the area without the forcible eviction of its residents. They worked together for six months on participatory research spanning the urban, social and economic dimensions of Maspero Triangle.12 They then took a further six months to collectively vision a design that would reflect the needs and ambitions of Maspero residents in an urban plan—​ Maspero Parallel Participatory Project—​a shadow project that projected a different path the state could follow when dealing with informal areas, instead of evictions. Moreover, ECCLR, Maspero Youth Alliance and Madd Platform worked closely with the then newly established Ministry of Urban Renewal and Informal Settlement that was headed by Laila Iskandar. During this time, residents of Maspero repeatedly mentioned their renewed hope and faith that the neighbourhood would be developed in consultation with them. Iskandar visited the area frequently and often talked with residents, and the alliance organised several conferences in the area. Most residents at the time expressed a desire to remain in the area after its development. Everything seemed to suggest the area would be developed while ensuring the housing rights of residents. The Ministry, in collaboration with Madd Platform and other partners, initiated an international competition for the Maspero Development Project and a British company won the bid (Zaazaa, 2015). Then, in 2016, there was a ministerial shake up, and the Ministry of Urban Renewal and Informal Settlement was removed. The Maspero Development Project was handed back to the ISDF and the Ministry of Housing, both of which had a very different philosophy in terms of how to approach it and deal with residents. Mustafa, one of the researchers responsible for the Maspero project, asserts that Cairo governorate exerted tremendous efforts to stop its implementation. We worked with Laila Iskandar. But after her dismissal we lost all forms of support. During her period, she wanted to put the project on the map of Cairo Urban Initiatives Platform, the Governorate Office, and all concerned entities. And as we started gaining some ground, we started facing strange problems. For instance, after we sealed the deal with the investors, the governor suggested that each apartment should house two families. This is just an example of the constant problems we faced; the governorate office tried everything in its power to stop the project. […] There are benefits gained in Maspero whether the project is implemented or not. Some of these benefits include the determination mechanisms that were used and the process itself, the people’s participation, our cohabitation in the area in order for us to comprehend the place in a more solid manner, and the number of people

76  Moving out of the square from the area who read the book we distributed among them and whose awareness was raised. Of course, the best-​case scenario is that the project is implemented and replicated in other areas in the same style. But even if it wasn’t implemented, we are honoured to leave something that other people can build on to move forward. (Mustafa Interview, 2016)13 Residents began losing faith in the process and in the government’s commitment to sustaining their housing rights amid developing the neighbourhood. After years of confusion and uncertainty about the future of the area and rumours of imminent forced evictions, the deputy minister of housing held a meeting with Maspero residents in 2017 and announced three alternatives: the first was monetary compensation for the demolition of their properties, amounting to US$5000; the second was relocation to Asmarat (a social housing project for people removed from informal areas); and the third was taking apartments in Maspero Triangle after the development project. Uncertainty and lack of faith in the government’s plan led many to choose monetary compensation or relocation to Asmarat. This ended residents’ dreams of staying in Maspero after its development, leaving only approximately 900 families who chose to remain in the neighbourhood. Those families have not yet received the apartments they were promised in the new buildings. There were some gains from the process; however, residents benefitted from interaction with architects, urban researchers, and civil society activists, and were able to negotiate some possible gains from the governorate, such as the promise that 900 families would have a place in Maspero after the development of the area, although this remains to be seen. The experience of eviction has been difficult for Maspero residents, who are understandably attached to the area and have built their lives there, as a male resident of Maspero in his thirties expresses to me: We belong to this place; it is part of us and we are a part of it. This place holds our memories and childhood. This is something that officials never understood. But we felt it. In this place I used to play, when I am upset, I like to sit in this place and talk to my friends. We are attached to this place not just because it is close to our work. We are linked spiritually to this place; our hearts are attached to this place. I do not want to go out. I do not want to live even in Zamalek, which is very close to us. I do not want to live there. We are attached to this place. (Mohamed Interview, 2016)14 Geographer Nigel Thrift argues that interaction between space, bodies and affect is linked to political consequences. He suggests affect is politically engineered and restructured in urban everyday life with varying political motivations. This can include erasing emotional histories, creating new affective registers or mobilising old ones (Thrift, 2008, 172). Thus, it is not farfetched

Moving out of the square  77 to argue that the urban restructuring of cities is linked to eliciting or inhibiting political responses. The wider plan of the Egyptian government to drastically change downtown Cairo, a space that witnessed a revolution, has interlinked political and affective goals. It aims to erase the affective register of the 2011 Egyptian revolution and inhibit the politics of the urban poor. Ghannam comments on state discourse during an earlier wave of displacement in Bulaq that resonates with my data leading to the eviction of Maspero Triangle residents: They started by separating and stigmatizing the targeted population as an expedient rationalization for policies that aimed to modernize, discipline, normalize, and reintegrate them within the larger community. Not only were the housing conditions attacked by state officials, but the people themselves were stigmatized and criticized. Playing on the popular ambiguity toward Bulaq and its inhabitants, the state discourse presented only negative images of the residents who were to be moved. […] Thus, the removal of these groups from the center of the city was seen as ‘the most dangerous plastic surgery, crucial to beautify Cairo’s face,’ and relocation was seen as ‘the scientific method’ that was going to move the people from ‘the dark to the light’. (Ghannam, 2002, 34–​35) The deployment of narratives around “thuggery” by the state and media were used concurrently to vilify the urban poor and undermine their politics. In the below data excerpt, Mohamed tells me how this narrative was used to justify forced evictions: They [the state] used the media and newspapers, especially Al-​Ahram newspaper, to say that we are baltagiyya (thugs), to ruin our image and justify the removal of the neighbourhood. We are doctors, professors and teachers. They used the narrative that we are baltagiyya. During this time, I tried to counter this idea and explain to the people that this is how they want to depict us. We do not want to appear this way. (Mohamed Interview, 2016)15 Through the modulation of needed affects, it was easy for the state to rally domestic and international support to crush “terrorists” and “thugs,” and to mobilise the necessary support to solve Cairo’s “informality problem” through massive urban planning projects. Hence, the move to Asmarat. Asmarat: “An open-​air prison” Farha Ghannam writes about the relationship between forced relocation and state efforts to modernise the nation. Her work is useful in analysing President Abdel Fattah al-​Sisi’s current “Long live Egypt” housing project:

78  Moving out of the square In short, relocation was perceived as a necessary step to create ‘modern’ subjects. They were to become productive, disciplined, and healthy citizens. Through relocation, Sadat’s policies aimed at the construction of the Egyptian identity through ‘negation’: they aimed at destroying an ‘image’ that did not represent the ‘modern’ Egyptian and at constructing ‘modern’ houses as a basic part of the creation of the ‘modern’ Egyptian identity and the constitution of new productive subjects. […] Neither Sadat nor the government-​controlled press referred to the fact that the police were sent to the area to force people to move and to crush any attempt to resist. […] Voices that protested the relocation were quickly silenced, and objections raised by the displaced population were considered ‘selfish.’ Officials emphasized that the benefit of the ‘entire nation’ should prevail over everything else. The project thus was centered on ‘progress and nationalism,’ which were two central constructions of space and time in the constitution of modernity. (Ghannam, 2002, 35–​36) President al-​Sisi’s development plan to civilise Egyptian citizens and modernise Egypt is similar. At its heart is a desire to deal with Cairo’s “informality problem,” one of al-​Sisi’s ongoing promises. The “Long Live Egypt” housing project, which is better known as Asmarat, started in 2016, and was presented as a solution to the aforementioned problem of informality. Asmarat, which is located in the Cairo district of Moqattam, was constructed by Cairo governorate and the Armed Forces Engineering Authority with the aim to accommodate the residents of Cairo’s informal settlements. The project is planned to include 20,000 housing units when complete. It currently houses around 10,000 families from different areas in Cairo, among them Maspero Triangle, Manshiyet Nasser and Duweiqa. The housing blocs are named and colour coded, with each bloc housing people from a certain area. Duweiqa inhabitants for instance are housed in green buildings and their area is called Banafseg (Violet), while the buildings of those from Bulaq Abu al-​Ila and Maspero Triangle are orange and called Yasmeen (Jasmine). Families who were relocated from Maspero were given the choice of living in Asmarat and paying LE300 per month, a relatively high rent that is not possible for many who live on low government pensions. The first thing that caught my eye when I walked into Asmarat was the slogan “Long live Egypt,” which was visible almost everywhere on all the similar housing blocks. “Long live Egypt” (Tahya Masr) is the infamous slogan that al-​Sisi used in 2014 in his first election campaign and is the official name of the city. This alone is telling of how important the project is to the presidency. Ghannam’s comments on an earlier episode of forced relocation highlights the sense of loss that often accompanies such moves: Using force (the police) and seduction (by appealing to images of modernity and offering alternative housing), the project removed them from the center of the city and deprived the group of the benefits associated with modern

Moving out of the square  79 facilities and new changes that infitah promised would bring prosperity for everyone. The group lost a major part of its economic, social, and symbolic ‘capital,’ to use Bourdieu’s (1984) term, all of which were linked to their central geographical location. Resettlement restructured most of the group’s informal economy, altered their access to many cheap goods and services, destroyed a major part of their social relationships, and reordered their personal lives. (Ghannam, 2002, 38–​39) The residents from Maspero Triangle who now live in Asmarat have a lot of grievances: “Many of us regret that we chose to come here,” one of them told me. Their complaints can be grouped into three main interrelated categories: services, security and unemployment. The lack of services is felt by almost all the residents in Asmarat, especially women. There is no hospital in the city, only a small clinic that is not equipped to provide urgent healthcare in case of emergencies, and the kindergartens are all private and too expensive for most families in the area. Residents who came from Maspero Triangle were used to having almost everything they needed in close proximity, now they have to take more than one bus to reach the nearest market, as the shops inside the city do not provide for everything they need. Moreover, whenever the resourceful residents have tried to fill this gap and arrange for food carts or vendors who would go to the nearest market to bring commodities and sell them inside the city, they have been heavily punished by the municipality. This brings us to the second grievance concerning security or relations with the state. The project of Asmarat was intended to solve informality, not just the problem of informal housing. Any randomness,’ as state officials call it, is therefore not tolerated. One blatant example of this is the issue of the shops inside Asmarat. Most of the former residents of Maspero Triangle worked in downtown Cairo and either lost their jobs when they moved or had to quit because the price of transportation is relatively high compared to their salaries. To solve the growing unemployment problem among young people in Asmarat, residents started asking about the closed shops in the city and trying to negotiate with the government a way whereby they might be permitted to access them and solve both the services problem and the unemployment problem. In an interview with Mada Masr, Khaled Siddiq, the executive director of the Informal Settlements Development Fund (ISDF), was asked about these shops, and this was his answer: “We’ve delayed the opening of these shops, because we’re working on unifying the styles of their facades, so they all look the same and conform to an image of the ideal society. We won’t leave any room for randomness to come back to this area again. At a later date, these stores will be put up for tender.”16 Siddiq’s words are indicative of the state’s approach to solving the “informality problem.” Asmarat is a housing project aimed at creating an ideal society and reforming people who have been living in informality for years. There will be no tolerance of any other way. Of course, ISDF and the local municipality are well aware

80  Moving out of the square that putting the shops up for tender means that residents will likely be priced out by the competition. This does not, however, seem to be a major concern for them, as long as the shops are uniform and project an image of an ideal society. Meanwhile, residents are also prohibited from engaging in any of the informal economic practices they were used to in their old neighbourhoods to fill the services gap, such as driving a tuk-​tuk to take residents to the nearest bus station or running a ful (beans) cart for those who cannot go to the market. Senior citizens and people with special needs have also lost many of the support systems they depended on for years in their old neighbourhoods. The state’s fight against informality has waged a war against many of the social practices that were central to maintaining the social fabric of the neighbourhood. The municipality has been against any social gatherings of any sort on the streets. In their former neighbourhoods, residents were used to having funerals, weddings, iftar in Ramdan, and other collective assemblies, which are now prohibited in Asmarat. The lack of control residents have over their immediate environments and the drastic change in their relations with the state have become more and more apparent and disempowering. Some residents have described this new experience in Asmarat as being like living in an “open air prison.” Yael Navaro-​Yashin talks about “the affect of spatial confinement” (2012, 62) to describe the experiences of her interlocutors, who also told her they feel like they are living in “an open-​air prison”: Spatial metaphors were at the center of Turkish-​Cypriots’ ways to express their experience of living as subjects of the polity in Northern Cyprus. ‘This is an open-​air prison,’ was one of the most common expressions used in 2000 and 2001. The open-​air prison (açık hava hapishanesi) metaphor is heavy with implication and contains an intrinsic paradox. Turkish-​Cypriots at the time experienced the ‘outside’ (outdoors, the air, the mountains, the sea, the  sky, the landscape) as an ‘indoors,’ an enclosed and framed space. One of the gravest offences at the time, in Northern Cyprus, was to cross the border to the south. Many people had been brought to military court for crossing the border, intentionally or accidentally, and punished with prison sentences. Expressing, again, the experience of confinement, Turkish-​Cypriots also described northern Cyprus as a ‘camp for prisoners of war (esir kampı),’ referring to themselves as the prisoners kept ‘inside’ by administrators of the regime and by soldiers. (Navaor-​Yashin,2012, 71) “The affect of confinement” (Navaro-​Yashin, 2012) is linked to the heavy policing of a particular space, which is the expressed experience of Asmarat residents, and is also apparent in the state’s harsh response to any signs of protest. In 2018, some residents complained about rent values and other problems concerning their contracts; they organised protests inside the city, and some even withheld their rent payments in objection. The municipality took swift action and issued eviction notices to those who did not pay rent.

Moving out of the square  81 Asmarat has makeshift gates at its entrance, where a police officer sometimes sits to check residents’ IDs and ask guests about where they are going and whom they are visiting. Any suspicious gatherings on the street are quickly dispersed, and several young men have been arrested and taken to local police stations. There is a sense among residents that the state is constantly on their case and is watching their every move. Resistance strategies against collective erasure Stories from the residents of Maspero Triangle have echoes in many informal areas around Cairo. In the face of demolition of their neighbourhoods and livelihoods, and material and affective dispossession, local communities have engaged in formal and alternative modes of resistance. I briefly outline in this section some of the diverse techniques used by residents to confront the complex challenges imposed on their communities. Another area that is currently facing threat of demolition, Al Hataba, is a neighbourhood in Old Cairo. One of the young activists calling for urban rights used a different form of art to raise awareness about the history of the area and depict the neighbourhood in a different light. Mohamed Khalifa, a young man in his twenties, produced a mahragan (a form of popular music) titled Al hataba anwany (Hataba is my address).17 Through the song, he takes his audience on a tour of the neighbourhood and introduces some of its residents. Khalifa sings that his family has lived in the area for three generations; he discusses the diversity of the neighbourhood, and stresses that they are not all thugs (baltagiyya). He uses the song to address misconceptions of the neighbourhood as being a dangerous place filled with drug addicts and reflects on the ways in which people judge him when he mentions where he is from. Khalifa invites those who judge him to get know him, rather than listen to propaganda about such areas. He does not romanticise the area, rather he highlights that, just as with any other neighbourhood, there are good and bad people. He sings about how he is an easy target of police oppression just because of his address, and how he is deemed a criminal just because of where he lives. Khalifa claims Al Hataba is a historical neighbourhood (just as Maspero residents did), and that the government depicts the area as a slum. Interestingly, he highlights a coalition between investors and the regime to demolish the area and turn it into a tourist site, speaking of the different strategies used by government to marginalise inhabitants and push through the demolition. Some of the strategies he mentions are similar to those raised by Maspero residents during my fieldwork. Firstly, Khalifa sings, residents were not allowed to undertake any kind of maintenance to their houses; secondly, residents’ incomes were inhibited by the closure of a doorway to the Cairo Citadel that was in the neighbourhood, as well as the closing of most services, such as schools; and thirdly, the demolition of the neighbourhood was announced. He reflects on the hope residents felt during the revolution, which was crushed shortly afterward when they heard about the eviction decision. At the end of the mahragan,

82  Moving out of the square Khalifa announces, “we are not leaving,” a powerful declaration of resistance. He manages in one song to introduce the neighbourhood, outline his claim to the area, uncover government strategies to remove residents, and declare his position against eviction. Deploying such a creative advocacy tool enabled the reaching of a wide audience, as the song was easily disseminated on social media. This is just one example of how local communities have used and subverted alternative expressions to help spread their message and fight layers of oppression. Khalifa uploaded the mahragan under the hashtag “no to the removal of Al Hataba” (#‫)ال_​إلزالة_​منطقة_​الحطابة‬. The song presents him as a tech savvy young man who uses Facebook, Twitter and Instagram to connect with the world. This also counters accusations of backwardness, and Khalifa asserts he is part of a global community through his access to social media. The use of online networks has been crucial to the residents of neighbourhoods facing erasure such as Al Hataba, Al Waraq islands or Maspero Triangle. Most neighbourhood collectives, associations and groups created their own Facebook pages or closed Facebook groups to share information about government plans, newspaper articles discussing their neighbourhoods, and meeting minutes, as well as to make statements, and to facilitate the discussion of alternatives and informed decision making. In the case of Maspero Triangle, which has already been demolished, social media has been useful in creating a virtual community since the physical community was erased, and as a way for former residents to keep in touch with those who went to Asmarat and to hear about their struggle, countering mainstream media narratives that praise these “great urban development projects” and often omit the actual experiences of the people. Residents have also used these Facebook pages and groups to upload videos and photos of their former neighbourhoods, documenting their memories and archiving their existence in the face of complete erasure. For instance, Maspero Triangle residents started a photography campaign right before the removal of the neighbourhood, asking people to upload photos of their streets, favourite areas of the neighbourhood, or their best memories. The result was quite powerful, with residents sharing all sorts of pictures of what it meant to live in Maspero Triangle as they bid farewell to their neighbourhood. The aspect of community organising has been crucial in almost all of the urban areas facing demolition. In Maspero, as discussed above, the residents were aware of their collective struggle and the power they had in collective action. Thus, they established the Maspero Youth Alliance in 2008, through which they were able to reach out to journalists and human rights activists, negotiate with the government, and raise awareness of the issue among other residents of Maspero. They held community meetings, initiated campaigns, issued statements, engaged in participatory research, organised protests, coordinated lawsuits and met with government officials when they had the chance, representing the neighbourhood as best they could in the most inclusive manner possible. Nevertheless, they faced many challenges, including political differences, and security forces threatened some members because of the

Moving out of the square  83 role they played in the Alliance. Among the most difficult challenges, however, was that after campaigning for so long against eviction, and after a lot of work in the area, most of the residents chose compensation or an apartment in Asmarat instead of staying in Maspero. The Alliance understood why the community made these choices; they realised that mistrust in the government’s plan led many to choose options other than what they had long advocated for, and they decided to embrace the choices of their community, working with them to ensure they got the alternative they opted for. They facilitated communication with the governorate when it was needed, they resolved community problems that came up during the process of compensation, and they did their best to keep their community informed. Thus, the Alliance played a central role in ensuring the interests of the people of Maspero were represented. A similar initiative was set up concerning Al Warraq Island. In October 2017, Al Waraq Island Family Council was established to fight for residents’ housing rights and provide a counter narrative to the one portrayed in mainstream media. Similar to the Maspero Youth Alliance, Al Warraq Island Family Council organised community conferences and protests, issued statements clarifying its stances, communicated with media to provide a local perspective concerning the island, tried to represent the interests of the local community, and attempted to counter a narrative of thuggery used to vilify them. The Council also tried to be as inclusive as possible, asking each of the big families to nominate five people and adding youth representatives to the mix. These are just two examples of community organising in urban areas facing the threat of demolition. Even in the current repressive political climate, with limited means, and while facing many challenges, including serious security threats, local communities in urban areas around Cairo continue to organise collectively and struggle to be heard. Local communities understand that these are collective struggles, which means that they need to organise within their own neighbourhoods but also reach out beyond their areas. Members of the Maspero Youth Alliance made connections with residents in other areas facing similar struggles, such as Al Hataba, to exchange ideas, strategies and lessons learned. These solidarity networks have been crucial to counter mainstream media narratives, circulate information, and get legal and technical advice aside from what the government has provided on housing issues. Women and youth alliance I attended some of the meetings organised by the Maspero Youth Alliance that aimed to discuss what to do after the ministerial change. Below is a data excerpt from my field diary, which I wrote after attending one of the meetings: Today I went to a meeting in Maspero. It was something like Athens-​like democracy. They were talking, laughing, fighting and discussing every detail of the Maspero project and different routes of resistance, such as going to court, negotiating with the government, or organizing a sit-​in. The women

84  Moving out of the square played an important role in organizing and running the meeting as well as asking questions. I think the last time I saw a meeting like this was in Tahrir. It really looked like one of those occupy meetings. The difference is that they were discussing a real specific issue that touched all of them closely. This is clearly a practice from Tahrir. The meeting was in a café (qahwa) on the street. The people were in a semi-​circle. Some people were sitting and some were standing. Some of the women brought their kids with them. Some people were even ‘attending’ from their balconies. Everyone was allowed to speak. I think this is one of the most inclusive meetings that I have attended. (Author’s field diary, 20 October 2017) One of the things that I observed was the coordination between women and youth of the neighbourhood, especially in the framework of the Maspero Youth Alliance. The fact that women played an important role in local activism was not itself a surprise, what was interesting was how this contradicted the narrative of male youth activists when I asked them about the role of women in the Alliance. Ismail encountered the same phenomenon during her fieldwork. In discussing the role of women as mediators with the state, she writes, “The role of women in mediating this experience of state domination is pushed out of men’s narratives. Rather, male youths insist that women are idle gossipers, doing little but displaying the feminine wiles” (2009, 231). Similarly, whenever I asked young male activists about the role of their female counterparts, they usually downplayed the roles of women, rendering them as auxiliary to their efforts. I asked them repeatedly to introduce me to women activists in their area; they usually responded that it would not be useful to my research and that the women would not have anything to add. Contrary to this narrative, in practice young male activists and the women of Maspero Triangle seemed to coordinate and collaborate to push forward their agenda. Young male activists relied heavily on women’s community outreach, organisational skills, and negotiation abilities. Below is another excerpt from my field diary following the above-​mentioned meeting: What was interesting was how youth from the alliance coordinated closely with women and depended on them to interrupt older men or spread a certain idea. At the beginning of the meeting, it was obvious that an older man was hijacking the floor and only when one of the women stopped him and requested that the youth from the alliance speak, were they allowed inside the circle. It was as if the women and youth were ganging up together to defy the local patriarchy, and only through this alliance their voices could be heard. (author’s field diary, 20 October 2017) What was obvious from this meeting as well as others was that young male activists worked closely with women in Maspero and Bulaq. Even when their male counterparts did not acknowledge this, young women played an integral

Moving out of the square  85 role in local activism and the popular committees. Some were even led by women, such as “Shubra Helm Bokra” (Shubra, the Dream of Tomorrow), which was the popular committee in Shubra. When I asked Sarah, the head of the committee, about the challenges of being a woman engaged in local activism, she acknowledged that there was initial resistance because Shubra is a popular area with conservative values, but that with time people had learned to accept her, and this had encouraged more young women to join the committee (from a personal interview). Women engaged in building local alliances with male youth activists in their neighbourhoods that enabled them, albeit temporarily, to disrupt old networks of power. In Bulaq Abu al-​Ila, Salma, a woman in her early thirties and a member of the Bulaq Abu al-​Ila popular committee, decided to run for parliamentary elections in 2014. Local young male and female activists who saw in Salma the possibility of representation ran her election campaign. They knew that they did not have a big chance of winning, but they wanted to make a point that a female candidate could run in their neighbourhood. Salma was not the only one; Nazra for Feminist Studies published a report in 2012 profiling sixteen female candidates who ran in the parliamentary elections after the revolution.18 Women were empowered after the revolution to join formal politics and seek representation. This was also reflected in local politics through alliances between women and youth that could have led to a wider change in gender dynamics had they been able to continue. Conclusion This chapter based on empirical data highlights the consequences of the expedited urban upgrading projects for the urban poor in Cairo. My research has shown that the removal of entire neighbourhoods, such as Maspero Triangle, has had a detrimental effect on local politics and has led to the further political marginalisation of the urban poor. Based on my research, I claim that one of the tactics of the regime is to systematically deconstruct the politics of the urban subaltern who played a major role in the revolution through urban reconfiguration, as well as new and old methods of affective co-​optation and coercion. The revolution was both a disruptive and productive moment for contentious street politics that have been developing over the years in Cairo. Narratives around “thuggery” were used by the state and media to vilify the urban poor and undermine their politics. The current Egyptian regime has a vision of an ideal society through which it aims to reform the “unruly masses.” This vision is being implemented through the removal of entire neighbourhoods under the guise of urban upgrading and a particular emphasis on securitisation. The struggle of Maspero Triangle discussed in this chapter is only one of many similar dynamics happening all around Greater Cairo. Residents of other areas, such as Al Hataba and Al Warraq, are anticipating a similar fate. In the face of bulldozers, citizens are using new and old ways of deploying local politics to push for their housing rights and to fight forcible evictions

86  Moving out of the square and the dismantling of their neighbourhoods and social networks. The move to Asmarat, for many, signals a shift in state-​society relations that will have drastic consequences on street politics in Cairo. This will change the map of local politics and will pose a challenge for theorists and researchers to conceptualise and analyse the shifting political dynamics on Cairo’s streets. Notes 1 Asmarat is a state housing project aimed at providing housing to people relocated from informal areas. For more on Asmarat see: Mohie, M. (2018). Asmarat: The state’s model housing for former “slum” residents. [online] Mada Masr. Available at: https://​madam​asr.com/​en/​2018/​06/​18/​feat​ure/​polit​ics/​asma​rat-​the-​sta​tes-​model-​ hous​ing-​for-​for​mer-​slum-​reside​nts [Accessed 27 December 2019]. 2 Bayat defines street politics as “a set of conflicts and the attendant implications between certain groups or individuals and the authorities, which are shaped and expressed in the physical and social space of streets—​from back alleys to the main avenues, from invisible city escapes to main squares.” (2012, 119). 3 Personal interview, Mohamed, Cairo, 27 April 2016. 4 Personal interview, Abdou, Cairo, 25 September 2016. 5 El Wahat is a remote area in Cairo. 6 Personal interview Mohamed, Cairo, 27 April 2016. 7 Personal interview Adham, Cairo, 4 April 2016. 8 Personal interview Abdou, Cairo, 10 December 2018. 9 Personal interview Abdou, Cairo, 10 December 2018. 10 Personal interview, Mustafa, Cairo, 12 April 2016. 11 Personal interview, Mohamed, Cairo, 27 April 2016. 12 For more on the Maspero project see: Zaazaa, A. (2015). Update on the Status of Maspero Triangle Project. [online] Cairobserver. Available at: https://​cairo​bser​ver. com/​post/​12493​5477​199/​upd​ate-​on-​the-​sta​tus-​of-​masp​ero-​trian​gle-​proj​ect#.XTBJ​ DcTg​pPY [Accessed 27 December 2019]. 13 Personal interview, Mustafa, Cairo, 12 April 2016. 14 Personal interview, Mohamed, Cairo, 27 April 2016. 15 Personal interview, Mohamed, Cairo, 27 April 2016. 16 Mohie, M. (2018). Interview: On developing the Maspero Triangle and the future of the Asmarat housing project. [online] Mada Masr. Available at: https://​madam​ asr.com/​en/​2018/​08/​04/​feat​ure/​polit​ics/​interv​iew-​on-​just​ice-​in-​the-​deve​lopm​ent-​of-​ the-​masp​ero-​trian​gle-​and-​the-​fut​ure-​of-​the-​asma​rat-​hous​ing-​proj​ect/​ [Accessed 27 December 2019]. 17 Khalifa, M. (2017). YouTube. [online] Youtube.com. Available at: www.yout​ube. com/​watch?v=​0KqA​kHmG​tFc [Accessed 27 December 2019]. 18 Nazra for Feminist Studies. (2012). Profile | 16 Female Candidates for the People’s Assembly Elections 2011/​2012. [online] Available at: https://​nazra.org/​en/​2012/​09/​ prof​i le-​16-​fem​ale-​can​dida​tes-​peo​ple%E2%80%99s-​assem​bly-​electi​ons-​20112​012 [Accessed 27 December 2019].

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Moving out of the square  89 Singerman, D., 1995. Avenues of participation: family, politics, and networks in urban quarters of Cairo. Princeton University Press, Princeton, N.J. Tadamun, 2013. “Paving the Streets of Mīt `Uqba –​Tadamun [WWW Document].” Tadamun. URL www.tada​mun.co/​?post_​t​ype=​ini​tiat​ive&p=​497&lang=​ en&lang=​en#.Xi7_​VGhK​hPY (accessed 1.27.20). Thrift, N., 2004. “Intensities of feeling: towards a spatial politics of affect.” Geogr. Ann. Ser. B Hum. Geogr. 86, 57–​78. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​j.0435-​3684.2004.00154.x Thrift, N.J., 2008. Non-​ representational theory: space, politics, affect, International library of sociology. Routledge, London. Wahba, D., 2016. “Gendering the Egyptian Revolution,” in: Sadiqi, F. (Ed.), Women’s Movements in Post-​“Arab Spring” North Africa, Comparative Feminist Studies Series. Palgrave Macmillan, New York. Zaazaa, A., 2015. “Cairobserver —​Update on the Status of Maspero Triangle Project [WWW Document].” Cairobserver. URL https://​cairo​bser​ver.com/​post/​12493​5477​ 199/​upd​ate-​on-​the-​sta​tus-​of-​masp​ero-​trian​gle-​proj​ect#.Xi8A​i2hK​hPY (accessed 1.27.20). Zolberg, A., 2002. “Guarding the Gates,” in: Calhoun, C. (Ed.), Understanding September 11. The New Press.

4 The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi

Governing through affect On 31 January 2018, Egypt’s President Abdel Fattah al-​Sisi delivered a clear warning. “What happened seven or eight years ago, will never happen again in Egypt,” al-​Sisi said in reference to the 25 January 2011 revolution. “What failed at the time, will not succeed now. No, it seems you do not know me well enough” (YouTube, 2019),1 he continued. From when al-​Sisi came to power in 2013 until 2018,2 security forces detained 60,000 political prisoners, sentenced 2658 people to death (not all of these sentences were carried out), forcibly disappeared 1290 people, and assassinated 3270 people (Rosalux, 2018). The Rabaa massacre, one of the most horrific in the nation’s modern history took place in 2013. Beyond statistics, there is still a lot to uncover about the range and the depth of Egypt’s counterrevolution. Scholars have argued that the Egyptian regime has been actively fighting to erase the memory and potentialities of the 25 January revolution (Abaza, 2018; Schielke, 2014). Based on my empirical data, I argued in a previous chapter (chapter two) for the productivity of affect in understanding both the revolution and counterrevolution. This chapter focuses on the ways in which affect sheds light on aspects of social reproduction that are obscured by the rationalist paradigm. “Affect may be one of the most important sources of political inaction, a topic that needs much more attention, both for its own sake and as an important point of comparison with analyses of the emergence of movements and other forms of contentious politics” (Gould, 2010, 32). In this vein, affect can be an insightful lens for examining the Egyptian revolution and its demise, as it can help us analyse both political mobilisation and demobilisation. Moreover, according to Gould, examining demobilisation can help us understand contentious politics. Thus, examining the counterrevolution and the demobilisation that followed between 2014 and 2018 can also enable us to better comprehend the revolutionary moment and its affective dynamics. Affect can provide an understanding of both the expansion of political imaginary during the days of revolution (2011–​13) and shed light on why some of these same actors rallied behind General Abdel Fattah al-​Sisi and the military coup d’état in 2013, DOI: 10.4324/9781003408741-4

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  91 which I will expand on in this chapter, without resorting to the arguments of false consciousness. Gould explains: Acknowledging the role of affect here pushes against false consciousness arguments: the issue is not that people fail to understand and pursue their ‘interests’ so much as it is that our attachments, our identifications, our aspirations, our fears are complex and do not derive from or neatly line up with our material conditions alone. (Gould, 2010, 32) According to Gould (2010), power does not only operate through ideology and discourse but also through affect. Those in power constantly attempt to manipulate and foster affective states, while affect in its fluidity usually escapes capture. An understanding of the relation between affect and power can help us examine the workings of power, especially in creating unreasonable political attachments. Ann Stoler, in her study of the Dutch colonial authority, argues “that the political rationalities of Dutch colonial authority—​that strategically reasoned, administrative common sense that informed policy and practice—​ were grounded in the management of such affective states, in assessing appropriate sentiments and in fashioning techniques of affective control” (Stoler, 2004, 5). According to Stoler, the management of affective dispositions is at the heart of the governance projects of states. I would add that they are also at the heart of the creation of state legitimacy. The role of the state is not only as Antonio Gramsci defined it, in the business of “educating consent.” More basically, such consent is made possible, not through some abstract process of “internalization,” but by shaping appropriate and reasoned affect, by directing affective judgments, by severing some affective bonds and establishing others, by adjudicating what constituted moral sentiments—​in short, by educating the proper distribution of sentiments and desires. (Stoler, 2008, 8) Stoler believes that states govern sentiments and highlights the link between political control and the management of affective dispositions. Thus, we need an understanding about statecraft that is “not opposed to the affective, but about its mastery” (Stoler, 2008, 10). In three years (2011–​2014), Egypt went from a country bustling with political debates, thousands of initiatives that had emerged nationwide, millions of voters participating in various elections, weekly protests, sit ins and elections, to a country where protest is now banned.3 The 25 January Egyptian revolution represented a crisis of legitimacy to a ruling regime that needed to harvest certain affective dispositions in order to reclaim its legitimacy. To accomplish this, the state started with an aggressive attack on the affective register of the revolution and managed to redistribute the affects of the revolution in its interests. The Egyptian regime worked to

92  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi deconstruct the affective reminisce of the Egyptian revolution and shaped it to its will. Ben Anderson expands on the relation between power and affect, arguing that power formations seek to modulate and reshape existing intensities and affective processes rather than exercise some form of disciplinary power (Anderson, 2010, 162). Modulating affect works through intensifying intensities and not reducing them. According to Ben Anderson, “[t]‌he excess of affect is now not so much regulated as induced, not so much prohibited as solicited. Modulation replaces constraint” (Anderson, 2010, 168). Thus, revolutionary affect need not necessarily be suppressed or reduced, but rather co-​opted and capitulated to fit the needs of the ruling elite, to preserve the status quo and to counter the same revolution it helped to sustain. Anderson reiterates, “[a] ffects are constantly in conjunction with forms of power that coexist, resonate, interfere, and change rather than simply replacing one another” (Anderson, 2010, 169). In studying the modulation of morale in “total war” during the First World War, Anderson considers the means governing regimes used to destroy and foster morale. This is a moment when military thinking had shifted drastically, collapsing the home front and the frontline, and removing the distinction between civilian and soldier. Most importantly for the purpose of this chapter, engaging in psychological warfare involves using techniques such as spreading rumours or false information (Anderson, 2010, 169). After the ousting of Mubarak on 11 February 2011, the Supreme Council of Armed Forces (SCAF) assumed interim authority. Scholars have argued that SCAF spearheaded the counterrevolution (De Smet, 2016). Taking into consideration the legacy of Western military thinking and evolving techniques for manipulating affect, as studied by scholars such as Anderson, can help us understand the techniques SCAF and al-​Sisi employed to co-​opt revolutionary affect. Anderson believes that focusing on morale as an object of power can be a tool for mobilising the masses (Anderson, 2010, 175). The use of radio and the generation of rumours were two techniques used to manipulate morale in the case of the First World War. “Both rumour and radio act affectively” (Anderson, 2010, 180). The techniques deployed by the counterrevolution in Egypt weren’t much different, except mass media and social media replaced the use of the radio. In the sections below, I discuss how rumour generation and media, in some cases simultaneously, were used by both SCAF and al-​Sisi to mobilise people against the revolution. Following Anderson, it is imperative to acknowledge that, “[t]‌here is then a long genealogy to forms of power that know, synchronise, and track the circulation and distribution of affects” (Anderson, 2010, 183). As shown by both Stoler and Anderson, states and colonial empires have always been invested in tracking and manipulating affect in order to mobilise masses, sanction sentiments, and create or sever certain affective bonds. The systematic attack on affective registers As discussed in Chapter two, I argue that the affective register comprises three affective states, all of which are mentioned by my interlocutors and in

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  93 academic work on Egypt’s revolution. Firstly, the breaking of fear (Schielke, 2014), whether fear of the police state, fear of Egypt’s demise or fear for one’s own safety; secondly, the coming together of people from diverse political backgrounds, religious affiliations and socio-​economic classes and across the classic gender divide, albeit highly negotiated and within certain limits; and thirdly, the expansion of political imaginaries within a repressive state. They form an affective register because they refer to relational, intense feeling states that have not yet necessarily materialised into prolonged emotions. The register deals with what remains, what has been registered in protestors’ memories about the “Midan Moment” (Ayata and Harders, 2019). In order to understand events after those initial eighteen days, it is essential to examine what registered as exceptional in that moment, and what remained in people’s personal and collective memories that directly relates to the opening and closing of political possibility. The counterrevolutionary agenda can be viewed therefore not just as a reactionary movement, but as the systematic deconstruction of the emancipatory potential of the revolution through attacks on this affective register. One of the most celebrated facts about the eighteen days of the Egyptian revolution that many have attributed to its success was the possibility for new forms of collectivisation, the coming together of people from different socio-​economic backgrounds and even competing political factions to constitute “The People” who would “demand the downfall of the regime.”4 The revolutionary moment intensified these bonds and created affective solidarity (Juris, 2008). Facing violence, danger and the threat of death during the early days of the revolution created a certain sense of comradery and familiarity among protestors. The collective existential threat fostered certain bonds that arguably came with strings attached and heightened expectations among historically rival political factions. It provided an illusion of a possible “coming together” that may have intensified the subsequent rift between “secular” protestors and “Islamists.” The making of “The People” was abruptly and violently followed by the unmaking of this massive political force that might otherwise have altered Egyptian politics more substantially. I examine the role of the state in deconstructing this fragile alliance between seasoned activists, newcomers, political Islam and the urban poor, through employing the affective politics of fear (Ahmed, 2004). Egypt’s post-​colonial state inherited the colonial mechanism of affective governance, building on two main narratives: the baltagi (the thug), to govern the unruly masses; and the “terrorist,” to govern political Islam. The eighteen days of the 2011 Egyptian revolution was a moment of rupture (Sabea, 2013) that disrupted various affective narratives, especially the baltagi and the terrorist. Suddenly, all revolutionaries were baltagiyya, and Islamists became comrades in a political struggle. However, two key incidents (out of many) played an integral role in remaking these narratives in a stronger way than before: the Maspero massacre in October 2011 and al-​Sisi’s call for a mandate to fight terrorism following the

94  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi Tamarod campaign5 and 30 June 2013 protests. The culpability of the state in these two incidents is evident. I use affect literature to explore how the state has been using tools of affective governance to break “The People” and ensure that this form of collectivisation becomes almost impossible to repeat. The state reproduced fear by inducing moral panic and carrying out mass killings, while playing on nationalistic feeling and a fear for Egypt’s demise. It sought not only to dismantle all notions of “The People,” but also closed the limits of what was formally considered possible within the realm of “protecting Egypt” from disorder and chaos. In the following section I highlight the Maspero Massacre, in October 2011, as an exemplary incident in which the state used two main tools—​rumour generation and mass media. This incident induced moral panic and served to vilify the urban poor, sever ties of affective solidarity between groups of protestors, and highlight the vulnerability of the Coptic minority, effectively hindering their politicisation. Maspero Massacre

What is happening to Egypt? In whose interest? Do we not care about our nation to that extent? Until now more than three martyrs and twenty injured, all are army soldiers. And by whom? Not by the hands of an enemy, but by the hands of a group of the sons of the nation. The army that is now being beaten (by protestors) is the army that stood on the side of the revolution. This army protected the revolution and refused to fire one bullet at any of the children of the Egyptian people. Now, the army is being shot at! Is it worth to burn a whole nation for the interests of one group? […] Is it now the case that anyone who supported the revolution now finds something they do not like and turns against the whole nation? Fear God in Egypt, Fear God in your country. We have been bearing a lot and we have to bear more and sacrifice for Egypt. (YouTube, 2015)6 These were the comments of a state-​television broadcaster on 9 October 2011, referring to the military’s violent dispersal of a peaceful Coptic protest. State-​run television channels called for “honourable citizens” to “defend the army against attack.”7 Human Rights Watch called for “an investigation into attempts by the military and the information ministry to control media coverage, as well as the statements by state TV presenters that may have amounted to incitement to violence,” asserting that a broadcast influenced armed men in civilian clothes from Bulaq neighbourhood, next to the Maspero television building, to “come to the army’s defence” upon allegedly hearing about its attack by Coptic Christians (Human Rights Watch, 2011). It all started with a peaceful march from Shubra, a Cairo neighbourhood that is predominantly Coptic, with thousands of protestors and allies headed to Maspero (the state-​ television building). Shortly after their arrival, witnesses said shots were fired

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  95 and two armoured vehicles drove into the crowds of protestors, killing at least ten demonstrators. Human Rights Watch (2011) affirmed that the protest by thousands of Copts had been peaceful, and that the “the military’s subsequent response was disproportionate.” The clashes continued until the early hours the next day and resulted in twenty-​four protestors being killed and one army officer. Maspero is not an incident of sectarian strife; it is a military crime against citizens. Yet media portrayed it as such through misinformation, meaning that in the midst of the events, Egyptian state TV announced that dozens of soldiers were killed, which SCAF denied later, and they constantly claimed that Coptic protestors killed the soldiers. The way it was portrayed entails incitement for a civil war, a sectarian war, by claiming that those Copts were attacking the army, and that the army is protecting the country. Therefore, by calling for honourable Muslims to go out and confront those Copts, so you can create sectarian strife. In reality, it is not sectarian strife, but what helped it look as such were the delusions from the media, and that there are sectarian roots which made people respond to such a false narrative. (858.MA, 2019)8 The demographic of the protagonists in the Maspero Massacre is significant to understanding the tragedy and its utility. Key players were: Coptic protestors, secular revolutionary allies, the urban poor—​particularly residents of Bulaq Abu al-​Ila and Maspero neighbourhoods—​the baltagiyya (thugs), the army and state-​run media. One of the most iconic images and narratives during the eighteen days was that of Copts protecting Muslims while they prayed. This was compared by some to images of the 1919 Egyptian revolution, when Copts and Muslims demonstrated together against British colonialism. One of my Coptic interlocutors in his early thirties highlighted the early days of the revolution as a transformative experience that had the possibility to redefine Coptic–​Muslim relations in Egypt (see chapter two). Here he talks about his first experience joining a demonstration in protest over discrimination against Coptic Christians following the bombing of Al Kedeseen church in early 2011.9 This incident has been dubbed as one of the mobilising factors for the Egyptian revolution. Kirollos expresses his astonishment at how Copts became engaged in contentious politics after this incident, and makes a connection between this demonstration and his involvement in protests on 25 January: Let me go back to the time before 25 January. I want to talk about why I joined the protests. It was the incident of bombing ‘Al Kedeseen’ church. The justifications and everything that was said were not convincing; the idea that someone bombed himself, and the whole sectarian strife scenario. As a Christian, let me clarify that during that time, Christians were part of a separate society. There were many sectarian incidents. And what they were saying was provocative and underestimated our intelligence. And

96  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi at church, they kept telling us we are oppressed. Then what? Should we continue being oppressed? They responded (the church) that Christ said, “But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the left cheek.” […] After that, the bombing of Al Kedeseen church took place and something surprising happened. Christians were the first to protest against the Ministry of Interior. There was a mass protest in Shubra; the number of people was unbelievable and the protest had huge momentum, since many civil movements joined in solidarity; it was a lot more than theorization in TV shows. The protest took place in Shubra Street. While I was there, I found a Christian man I know leading the chants. I could not believe that Christians were protesting. It was the first time they engage in the public sphere on such a wide scale. After the protest, I met my friends and all we could talk about was what happened in Tunisia. And the main point in the conversation was not to dream because that could end terribly. (Kirollos Interview, 2016)10 Right after the bombing of Al Kedeseen church, thousands of protestors, both Coptic Christians and Muslims, took to the streets in Shubra, calling for the removal of the minister of interior. Though Copts had on occasion chanted against the police before the revolution, the number of Coptic protestors that resorted to contentious politics against the state was a surprise, not just to my interlocutor, as he expresses in the above narrative, but also to many Egyptians who are not used to Coptic Christians engaging in antagonistic behaviour toward the Egyptian state. Kirollos told me about an experience of stereotypical othering and difference that he experienced shortly before the revolution, which was unlike his usual encounters as a religious minority. In Egypt, men with long beards are often stopped and checked by police, assumed to be Islamists. Kirollos had a long beard at the time and insisted on telling this story: I will tell you about a situation I will never forget that I got into because of my long beard. I was leaving the metro station, when a police officer stopped me and asked me for my ID. I asked him why and he said they were going to run a security check. I went with him and they were holding many IDs and the officer started calling names, ‘Mohamed, Mostafa…etc.’ (All Muslim names). Then he asked, ‘where is Kirollos?!’ When they reached my name, they asked me to take my ID and leave. I asked him why again and he asked me if I wanted to stay. So I asked him why he stopped me in the first place! I said to him, ‘is it because of my beard?’ I noticed that all of those around me had long beards. He told me it was none of my business and instructed me to leave. I asked him to answer me and he threatened to let them go and keep me instead. (Kirollos FGD, 2017)11 This experience of having a beard as a stereotypical marker, and then being exempt from mistreatment by the police because of his Coptic name, was

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  97 pivotal for Kirollos. This time he felt safe as a result of his difference, not discriminated against because of it—​or perhaps he saw this as discrimination in itself. Either way, the symbol of the beard stayed with him as a bodily marker that queers his belonging to a certain group or other, at least until people learn his name. In The Square, he found things to be different. Here, he talks about physical resemblance to signal a sense of inclusion rather than distinction: Before the revolution Copts had a phobia of anyone with a beard (a reference to Islamists). I saw this change in The Midan among my friends. They did not care anymore. There was something really beautiful in The Midan, we ‘rubbed off each other.’ The Midan was like a blender, we started to resemble each other. We stayed together and all of our beards started to grow so you could not tell the liberal from the communist from the Islamist. (Kirollos FGD, 2017)12 The regime did not look favourably on the re-​ politicisation of Coptic Christians and was not welcoming of societal changes to sectarian relations. This empowering collective affect needed to be swiftly crushed, and so it was with the Maspero massacre. The minority status of Coptic protestors had to be reiterated, along with their vulnerability in society. State media played an integral part in inciting hatred, and breaking any kind of affective solidarity (Juris, 2008) that might have developed in The Square between Copts, Islamists and the urban poor. The regime needed to show that society was on its side in attacking Coptic protestors, with the state and not “The People” as the only resort for Copts to protect their rights in Egypt against an “uncivilised, hateful mob” of Islamists and thugs. Both rumour and radio (Anderson, 2010) were used as tactics in this massacre to manipulate existing sectarian tensions and implicate Islamists and the urban poor as the main perpetrators of violence instead of the state. In the early 1940s, states used several tactics to affectively influence populations and foster morale, as documented by Anderson, “addressing individuals directly as affective beings” through the radio, press, movies, theatre and educational institutions. Radio has the utility of immediacy through familiarity of tone from a distance, and rumour can be used to spread mistrust, confusion and panic, as well as to stimulate feelings of resentment. “Rumor and radio therefore check and limit certain circulations of morale and panic by catalyzing and directing others. As such they exemplify the expansion of the scope of techniques of power once the target becomes ever more diffuse” (Anderson, 2010, 181). Such influence over morale is different to establishing a direct form of obedience or consent; it does not rely on crude forms of manipulation, prescription and prohibition. The aim, rather, is to modulate existing affects and generate panic based on established societal fears. In the data excerpt below, Samer, an actor in his mid-​thirties, explains why he believes the Maspero massacre was a turning point in the Egyptian revolution and for him personally. Samer was part of Tahrir Monologues,13 a group

98  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi that performed stories from the revolution in Cairo and nationwide. On the day of the massacre, they were performing in the Zabaleen area, where Egypt’s largely Coptic garbage collectors reside. Interestingly, Samer was performing the story of a Salafi Sheikh who describes his experience of mingling with Copts and women in The Square as transformative: It started to be clear that things are going the wrong way and we were being played […] until the day of Maspero in October 2011. By coincidence, we were going that day to perform in the Zabaleen area. When we were there among the people, everyone started getting phone calls. Then we finished the performance, people were in disarray. We all went to Maspero afterwards, some of us were able to get in, and others did not. Since that day, I felt that something inside me changed. The fact that we were there, inside this place and people kept getting news about protestors being run over and yet they were all nice to us. I was playing a Salafi role and they all came and greeted me afterwards and said “Hey, ya Sheikha!” Since this day things kept happening, the massacres orchestrated by SCAF to eradicate the revolution and exhaust the revolutionaries. Maspero, Mohamed Mahmoud,14 the Cabinet of ministers,15 fall and winter of 2011. (Samer Interview, 2016)16 The Maspero massacre was not the only incident directly targeting Copts and inciting sectarian strife in the months following the revolution. Mariam, a Coptic mother of two, “dreamt of the revolution, just like anyone who dreamt of change in this country.” She lives in Manshyet Nasser, a marginalised informal area in Cairo, divided into two for its Muslim and Coptic residents. Mariam personally witnessed a key sectarian incident in her area, before Maspero and shortly after the ousting of Mubarak, that was not covered by the media: A sectarian incident took place in our area, in Manshyet Nasser after the ousting of Mubarak that changed my life. (…). After the ousting of Mubarak, the police had disappeared. This day was the first time the police had reappeared in our area since then. Two police cars came and stood at the entrance of the area where the Coptic residents live. Shortly before that, there was a church in Giza that was attacked by the people who lived there. The elders of Manshyet Nasser went to ask the police why they were there and if there was anything wrong. The police officers told them that they knew that Copts were angry because of the latest incident in Giza and that they knew that Copts wanted to organize protests to march into Tahrir and they were there to secure the protests. Of course, nothing of that sort was organized, but people got riled up even though they did not have such an intention before. That was at the beginning of the day when people started talking and decided to actually do something. The officers told them we knew that you would protest by blocking the Autostrad;17 it was as if

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  99 they were drawing the path that we should walk. They were playing on religion as the obsession of the masses. Also, scenes from the church attack that were screened on TV made people very angry. This was before Maspero and right after the ousting of Mubarak. People started talking and the youth of the neighbourhood became very enthusiastic. This was one of the first demonstrations that included women and I was one of them. The youth of the neighbourhood said that they would march to Maspero or Tahrir. I was against blocking the Autostrad because we would lose sympathy for our cause this way. People were divided, but when we started moving, some protestors were already blocking the Autostrad and Salah Salem.18 The reason behind this was that blocking such important roads and disturbing traffic could allow people to be heard and would be more efficient than marching to Maspero or Tahrir. The priests from our local church came out and tried to calm people down but no one listened. Suddenly, a garbage collection truck came toward us. The driver was beaten up really bad. He got out of the car and told us what happened. He was driving from Hussein19 when a group of Muslim men cut him off, beat him up, took over the car and broke the windows. Then they drove up to El Sayeda Aisha,20 told the people there that Copts in Manshyet Nasser attacked the mosque there, and asked more men to join them under the pretence that the Mosque of El Sayeda Aisha would be next. (…). We started hearing gunshots. (…). When the shooting started they asked the women to go inside. After an hour, the shooting intensified. Pickup trucks kept coming into the neighbourhood with young men with gunshot wounds. (…). That day, there were 168 injured—​all Copts. There were ten people who were killed, only one of them was Muslim, he was from our neighbourhood and joined the protest with us. The incident was covered up and was not mentioned in the media at all. That day we really felt that we were going to die. After the shooting, they closed off the neighbourhood so we couldn’t go out with corpses or with the injured. Coptic protestors backed down and retreated to some of the houses in the neighbourhood; the attackers entered these homes, robbed them and burned them. (…) We were trapped inside for three or four days. That day was a turning point for me. People were screaming everywhere in the neighbourhood. Trucks were coming in carrying young men who were shot or killed. And my young daughter asked, ‘Mum, are we going to die?’ I told her no, I was trying to reassure her, but I knew that something horrendous was happening. Anyway, someone from the neighbourhood went out and fired some shots, so the attackers backed down and things calmed down. The hospital in the neighbourhood did not have enough equipment to treat all the injured, especially as they had gunshot wounds and they needed surgery. There was not enough space and the injured were lying on the ground. We stayed trapped like this for three days. We were not able to bury the dead or treat the wounded, until they broke the siege and people started taking the injured to the hospital. The neighbourhood was in mourning. Ten young men were dead. […] As a Copt, you know that you can die anytime in your

100  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi own country and no one will object. After the incident, I was psychologically distraught. I kept thinking about my children and my daughter asking me, ‘Mum, are we going to die,’ a sentence that I keep hearing repeatedly. Death has knocked on my door. (Mariam Interview, 2017)21 Rumour generation as a tactic that would act affectively on the people to incite sectarian violence was used in this incident. The goal of the state was to inflame societal violence and create panic. This was general panic that would be associated with the revolution –​panic that would require a strong leader to take control of the country and restore security and stability; panic to ensure that the “church population” would not be on the side of the revolution, and that the state would emerge as the sole protector of minorities from radical Islamists. Mariam reflected on the role that the Coptic Church has been playing in politics and expressed her frustration over the Pope’s claims that the state is protecting Coptic Christians: The amount of injustice and pain one goes through just to be told this is your crucifix. We were not created to suffer all the time to say this is my crucifix and be silent about the injustice we go through. I criticize Pope Tawadros because he is not a responsible person and he does not act responsibly enough toward his people. He is complicit in all that is happening. I said before that the Pope is a hypocrite. When there is forced migration in some villages in Minya, there is shooting and violence, and then he appears on TV and says that Sisi is keeping us safe and that he is protecting Egyptians. What about the people who are dying? And the customary sessions that he (the pope) approves. What is happening? You want to look out for each other’s interests, fine, but not at the expense of the people. Whenever I say this, they tell me how come you are criticizing the Pope? Yes, I criticize him. He is a human and makes mistakes that affect all of us. If we would have objected to the politicization of the church, we would not have been in this position, but we are silent about everything that happens. We have no voice. (Mariam Interview, 2017)22 This incident greatly shook Mariam and led her to think about ways in which she might do something about sectarian violence. As a result, she started an initiative with some of the young men in her neighbourhood, involving both Copts and Muslims to work on aspect of citizenship, human rights and sectarian issues: The first day my daughter went back to school after this incident, she came back home crying. The kids told her, ‘you are an infidel and you deserve to die.’ We are talking about a child in KG1. That day I went to her school and talked to the principal. I told the principal what happened and that if a kid said something like this it is probably because they heard it from an adult

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  101 at home or at school, either way we should have a parents’ meeting. The principal told me that I am blowing things out of proportion and it was not possible to call for a parents’ meeting because the midterms were coming up. I sat with a group of young men from the neighbourhood to think about what we could do. I was the only woman among them. I suggested to do something that includes both Muslims and Christians. My Muslim friends during the attack were the ones who prevented the attackers from throwing Molotov cocktails on us, so we have good people on the other side, why not work together and start an initiative to raise awareness in our neighbourhood. […] Anyway, we started an initiative and we ran activities for children and young people. We agreed that this was our target group. We wanted to run activities in schools, but we were denied because we were not an official organization. Even when we became a foundation, we could not do anything, and they told us to remove human rights issues (from their preamble) so we could get approval from National Security. The initiative continued for a bit, but we could not go on because all of this was stopped. The sad thing is that you cannot do anything to make the society you live in better. We made plans to travel to different governorates and conduct activities in youth centres. We were told directly in a youth centre in Alexandria that there were orders to stop such activities, especially those that tackle such themes [citizenship and sectarian strife], and that after 30 June there was an official policy to seize activities of that sort. (Mariam Interview, 2017)23 The politicisation and engagement of Copts on issues of sectarian violence was not allowed to continue or flourish. Mariam identified a societal problem and she wanted to engage with her neighbourhood and possibly wider society to address it. There was only one route available for Copts, however, which was to rally behind the state for protection. Reinstating fear: the making of the baltagi and the terrorist The state used a similar strategy with women protestors and women’s rights activists who were targeted as part of the counterrevolution. The eighteen days in Tahrir were followed closely by a series of assaults, virginity tests and an attack on the women’s march on International Women’s Day 2011, leading up to the incident of the “blue bra girl” on 17 December 2011 (Wahba 2017). The state needed to re-​emerge as the sole protector of minorities from the bigotry and hatred of wider society, and thus to dismantle any illusions of comradery that came out of the eighteen days. The participation of women and Copts was essential for international and domestic media consumption, to signal a revolution that was inclusive, diverse and not led by Islamists or thugs. A state strategy to demonise protests started before the revolution, feeding into depictions of “the Arab street” as “crazed mobs of brutal men that are vaguely ‘Islamist,’ and fiercely irrational”—​what Paul Amar calls “the baltagi-​effect”

102  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi (2011, 308). Once protests became too dangerous for women and Copts, once strategic alliances and affective ties that emanated from the revolution were severed, what was left from the critical mass of “The People” were the urban poor and political Islamists. Through its modulation of affect, it was relatively easy for the state to rally the necessary domestic and international support to crush those it deemed terrorists and thugs. Amar illustrates: The security state’s initial response to the rising tide of protests during the 1990s was to attempt to delegitimize, intimidate and blur both the image and message of these movements by infiltrating and surrounding them with plain-​clothes thugs, deputized by police and paramilitary security forces. Whereas in the 1990s, baltagiya (the gangs of ‘thugs’ and networks of violent extortion rackets seen as emanating from the informal settlements surrounding downtown Cairo) were identified as terrorist enemies of the security state, by the 2000s, the baltagiya had been appropriated as useful tools of the police. The Interior Ministry recruited these same gangs to flood public spaces during times of protest. They were ordered to mix with protestors and shout extremist slogans in order to make the activists look like ‘terrorists’; or, alternately, to wreak havoc, beating civilians and doing property damage in the area of the protest, while, of course, brutalizing the protestors themselves. These practices aimed to produce what I call the baltagi-​effect. This effect not only terrorized the protestors, but also generated new images for domestic and international media and criminological narratives for international security agencies and local law enforcement. (Amar 2011, 308) One of my interviewees, a political activist in his late twenties comments on the role of thugs in the revolution: The baltagiyya in Egypt are of two kinds: Unorganised ones who just think that they are cool to have a weapon. The other kind is more organised; there are groups who know each other. A mafia! They coordinate with security forces and leaders and they have money. These are the ones who burned down buildings and robbed shops. The regime wanted to give this image of the revolution, that the revolution is vandalism and burning down buildings. It was a counter image. I think those who led this are organised. (Ammar Interview, 2016)24 Maha Abdelrahman (2017) explains the “job description of the baltagiyya:” In addition to formal forces and in order to support the needs of an ever-​ expanding regime of terror, the MOI started to ‘outsource’ its most ‘dirty’ business to baltagiya (thugs). Baltagiya are criminals, known to the police,

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  103 usually with a record of violence, who are paid to carry out duties of ‘disciplining’ members of the public in return for the police turning a blind eye to their criminal activities. The baltagiya’s job description expanded to include voter intimidation, beating up, raping and sexually abusing criminal suspects and political activists, breaking up demonstrations and workers’ strikes, forcibly removing farmers from their land and much more. (Abdelrahman, 2017, 189–​190) I would like to build on the above narratives and argue that the role of the baltagi is key to understanding the relationship between the urban poor, the state and the revolution. In the case of the Maspero massacre, discussed above, the people from the Bulaq Abu al-​Ila and Maspero neighbourhoods were implicated as perpetrators of violence. According to a press release from the Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights (EIPR) following the incident, “people in civilian clothes joined the army’s assault on protestors. A large number of witnesses stated that these were Muslims from the areas of Bulaq Abul Ela and Ghamra” (EIPR, 2011).25 One of my interlocutors, a researcher on the Maspero neighbourhood, commented on the problematic role played by the residents of Maspero during the massacre, and posited it against the role they played during the 25 January revolution: They [the residents of Maspero neighbourhood] helped people during the uprising of 25 January; they had the feeling that they are securing the place. However, a large percentage of them were working for the police to secure the ministers on October 9 during the Maspero events. This was another disaster; they actually did kidnap some people. People changed. And they do not really talk about it. (Mustafa Interview, 2016)26 In the Maspero neighbourhood itself, the question of the involvement of residents in the massacre was controversial, with differing reports of the incident. Two accounts from residents in my data can help us understand the different levels of awareness about the events that unfolded that night. Ibrahim, a man in his fifties who works at a coffee shop in Maspero Triangle, told me about his experience. He was working when he saw people from the neighbourhood fighting with protestors. He later learned they were largely Coptic protestors, and he remembers seeing a priest among them. Ibrahim said that he didn’t care much whether they were Coptic, the main point for him was that people from his neighbourhood were fighting with outsiders. He noted that the protestors were aggressive and clashing with his neighbours, so he joined  the fight to defend them. Later that night, Ibrahim went back to the coffee shop and saw himself on television. Al Jazeera was reporting live that terrorists and thugs were attacking the protests and there was footage of him as one of those thugs. As he recounted the story he laughed at the ironic turn of events, and how he and others from the neighbourhood saw

104  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi themselves being posited on television as thugs attacking Coptic protestors in clashes that turned out to be much bigger than a neighbourhood fight. One of the interesting things about this narrative is how the residents of the Maspero Triangle found themselves inserted at the centre of events, with their roles momentarily determined for them. Another account from one of my main interlocutors in Maspero Triangle, Abdou, is strikingly different from Ibrahim’s. Abdou’s story shows awareness, political intent and deliberate engagement with the incident. The stance of the Alliance [Maspero Youth Alliance] throughout the past few years has always been revolutionary. When Mina Daniel27 died in front of the Maspero building, state media outlets claimed people from Bulaq Abu al-​ Ila and Maspero Triangle neighbourhoods were the ones who killed the Coptic protestors. In response, a large march was organized from Bulaq Abu al-​Ila to express solidarity with Coptic protestors and protest SCAF, and to accuse SCAF of spreading lies and deluding the people. The protestors in the march announced officially that Copts are part of us and we would never hurt them. We announced officially that the military is the one who attacked Coptic protestors and we were the ones who were treating the injured in our neighbourhood. There are things that happened in Bulaq Abu al-​Ila that are central to the history of the revolution and its truth and the reality of the role of people from popular neighbourhoods in the revolution—​and Bulaq was at the forefront. Particularly because this neighbourhood and its people lived the revolution, they always took a stance and they were always accused of being thugs and that they are the ones who killed the Copts. The reaction was 2,000 people from the neighbourhood committees and the alliance marched from Bulaq Abu al-​Ila to protest SCAF and Tantawi and say that they were the ones who killed the Copts. I went on the protest myself with a priest to announce that we were with the Copts and we support their sit-​in and we support their efforts to call for their rights, and that we will protect their sit-​in through establishing a neighbourhood committee around them so that no thugs can enter the sit-​in and beat them. I talked about this myself. This was before Mina died. Mina Daniel was a dear comrade who supported the Maspero cause and was active in the neighbourhood committees. He was the one who took me to the protest stage and he fought with other Coptic protestors because you know there is also discrimination there, because the Coptic protestors had their own demands and they did not want anyone from the revolution to participate. But there were young Coptic activists such as Mina, may God rest his soul, who were like us and saw that the revolution is the most important struggle, more important than the church, more important than the mosque and more important than anything. Mina had a famous quote, which he said on a TV program, he said that we are being fooled and that religion is being used against us. Mina’s opinions made us doubt that he was killed by chance and think that maybe he was targeted. Mina took a

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  105 strong stance and fought with the priest and his comrades of the sit-​in to put me on the protest stage. He did that so I could announce that the people in Bulaq Abu al-​Ila, the neighbourhood committee and the alliance express solidarity with Coptic protestors and that they are our brothers and that we would like to secure their sit-​in. I said that our neighbourhood was open to them, they should consider it as their home, and that there was nothing to worry about. There was a lot of fear during this time from thugs, that the thugs (baltagiyya) were coming for them, as you know. Mina used to talk with me and with other friends. I always said, ‘no, there is nothing like this,’ so he asked me to come to the protest stage and announce this. Two weeks after I made this announcement Mina died. I took Mina from the square on 28 January [2011] when he was injured. This was the first time I met him. A common friend called me and told me that Mina was injured in The Square; I told my friend I did not know him but he gave me directions on where to find him. I took Mina from The Square to Bulaq Abu al-​Ila, where he was treated and fed and he refused to go home. We were afraid to take him to the hospital because he might be arrested. Mina was one of the Coptic activists who were with the revolution, they protected Muslims when they prayed in the square. We were living together. He was well known in the square and he was loved. To an extent that we really suspect that he was assassinated and it was not a coincidence. Mina was popular and eloquent and he had enemies in the church because he had a revolutionary discourse. He was a young man from a popular quarter; he always talked about poverty, unemployment and exploitation. He criticised the regime and the church. When I knew that he died, I did not go see him, I walked alone for hours, everything was blurry and I did not talk to anyone. I stayed at home for three days in a strange state. Later, I went to visit his siblings, I was in disbelief and I was filled with anger. He was with me a few hours before he died. I learned a lot from him, he used to lend me books. We helped each other. We were comrades. Two weeks after we announced the solidarity of the people of Bulaq Abu al-​Ila with the Coptic protestors, that we supported their sit-​in, that the neighbourhood was open to them to counter the rumours that were circulating, and we published the statements on Facebook and other websites—​ the army broke the sit-​in. The Coptic sit-​in was dispersed, some died, some were injured, but we protested. The media claimed that the people of Bulaq Abu al-​Ila beat the Copts, so we organized marches to protest SCAF and called for the downfall of the military regime. The Copts joined this protest and we announced to all the media outlets that the army was responsible and that we as the people of Bulaq Abu al-​Ila were here protesting this. We chanted this in front of everyone. Bulaq had clear stances and opposed all regimes—​the Ikwan, SCAF and Mubarak. (Abdou Interview, 2016)28 Maspero was one of the most militant neighbourhoods to defend the occupation of Tahrir Square in 2011, among many in downtown and Old Cairo

106  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi (Ismail, 2013). As it is adjacent to Tahrir and it played a crucial role in sustaining The Square during the eighteen days. My research shows that one of the tactics of the regime was to systematically deconstruct the politics of the urban subaltern that played a major role in the revolution through new and old methods of affective co-​optation and coercion. State narratives about thuggery were used to vilify the urban poor and undermine their politics, as the urban subaltern or popular forces were at the heart of “The People” in the infamous slogan, “The people demand the downfall of the regime” (Ismail, 2013). During the eighteen days, around 100 police stations in popular quarters in Cairo were burned down. Ismail contests official accounts claiming this was the work of baltagiyya. The question of who burned the police stations during the eighteen days could serve as an entry point to problematise the identity of baltagiyya, rather than to simply posit them in opposition to revolutionaries. The revolutionary moment blurred the lines between who was a “thug” and who was a “revolutionary” in the eyes of the state. Since all protestors were outlaws, everyone became a thug. I argue that this was moment of subversion and renegotiation of the affective dispositions around the urban poor. Hemmings (2005) argues that bodies are captured and held by affective structures. However, the revolutionary moment presented an opportunity for the aggressive demarcation of bodies, particularly those of the subaltern urban poor and Islamists. I argue that examining the affective registers linked to the making of the baltagi and the terrorist are essential to understanding the counterrevolution. There was an urgent need for the state to rehash the historical narrative of the baltagi and the terrorist and posit them as dangerous criminals to justify mass violence, shift blame and expedite urban transformation projects. Sara Ahmed (2004) reminds us that fear has the potential to open past histories of association that distinguish bodies from each other in the present. “I would suggest that the sideways movement between objects, which works to stick objects together as signs of threat, is shaped by multiple histories, the movement between signs does not have its origin in the psyche but is a trace of how such histories remain alive in the present” (2004, 66). So, she argues, emotions have the power to align bodily space with social space; and thus fear, as an affective economy of sorts, can be used to contain some bodies through the movement or expansion of others so that they take up less space (2004, 62, 69). Racialised fears of Middle Eastern maleness circulate in a global affective economy governed by tropes of thuggery and terrorism. Paul Amar argues: ‘Time bomb masculinity’ is also just a dumbed-​ down or depoliticized version of the ‘suicide bomber’ trope, which has become the justification for ratcheting up surveillance and undercutting civil liberties in the Middle East, as well as in European cities. In this sense, it represents the ultimate militarization of the respectability discourse of urban modernity. (2011, 316)

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  107 Amar claims that a constituent “other” or terrorist subject “overwhelmed by Orientalist sexual excess” is necessary to produce the respectable liberal subjects of Western LGBT and feminist politics (2011, 316). The Arab Spring defied the exceptionalism of the Arab region and produced images that contradicted the traditional tropes of the “Arab street” and the discourses of masculinity in crisis, disrupting the global affective economy of fear surrounding the unruly Arab masses. These problematic notions were used to justify the “war on terror,” occupations and the policing of certain bodies dating back to colonial rule. This disruption caused a crisis of international legitimacy for the Egyptian regime based on its usual control of the “uncivilised mob.” Moreover, it opened space for the renegotiation of depictions of the “Arab street.” This challenge was unwelcomed by domestic and international players. Commenting on the attack of CBS journalist Lara Logan,29 Amar explains: Media reports did not consider that the harassers could have been plain clothes paramilitaries or sub-​contracted thugs sent by State Security to attack internationals as they had been doing for weeks or that the attacks could have been stirred up by the incessant government propaganda insisting that ‘imperialist journalists’ should be challenged and humiliated. Instead, the media ignored the issue of the security state and its practices. The predatory culture of Muslim men became the talking point. No reporters followed up on the fact that Logan had been rescued by a group of Egyptian young women political activists and twenty male military officers. Were these subjects not also representative of Egypt, ‘Muslim culture’ and the revolution? (Amar, 2011, 301) International right-​wing media instrumentalised this attack early on after the revolution to re-​signify protestors and hinder any productive challenge to the domestic and global regime of fear that feeds the securitisation paradigms targeting Middle Eastern men. I argue that these narratives centred on two main tropes, the baltagi and the terrorist, both of which have been masterfully used by the Egyptian state in synchronisation with a global affective economy of fear. These narratives culminated in General Abdel Fattah al-​Sisi declaring a war on terror in 2013. “I have a request for Egyptians, next Friday [24 July 2013] all honourable and honest Egyptians should go to the streets to give me a mandate and an order to fight potential violence and terrorism.” I believe the key word here is potential. The question then becomes, how was al-​Sisi able to mobilise thousands of Egyptians to support him to use all means necessary to combat what was not yet in existence? Brian Massumi (2010) explains the futurity of threat and the role of feelings in creating and sustaining a threat: It [the threat] will have been real because it was felt to be real. Whether the danger was existent or not, the menace was felt in the form of fear. What is not actually real can be felt into being. Threat does have an actual mode

108  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi of existence: fear, as foreshadowing. Threat has an impending reality in the present. This actual reality is affective. Fear is the anticipatory reality in the present of a threatening future. It is the felt reality of the nonexistent, loomingly present as the affective fact of the matter. (Massumi, 2010, 53–​54) Thus, the felt reality can supersede the actual reality and the affective fact of the matter can replace the actual facts. “If we feel a threat, there was a threat. Threat is affectively self-​causing” (Massumi, 2010, 54). The threat is real as long as it feels real. Consequently, the decision to act upon that feeling is justified. “The felt reality of threat legitimates preemptive action, once and for all. Any action taken to preempt a threat from emerging into a clear and present danger is legitimated by the affective fact of fear, actual facts aside” (Massumi, 2010, 54). In this sense, it was not important whether the Muslim Brotherhood was acting as a terrorist organisation at the time of al-​Sisi’s speech, or whether they were involved in any actual violence. The felt reality of the threat of violence became the determining factor that mobilised thousands and authorized al-​Sisi to commit one of the most horrendous massacres in Egypt’s modern history at Rabaa. It does not end here. Massumi argues that, after a threat has been actualised it doesn’t mean it is not real anymore; it can remain real forever. “The future threat is forever” (Massumi, 2010, 53). The threat remains there ready to be utilised whenever necessary. “Preemptive security is predicated on a production of insecurity to which it itself contributes” (Massumi, 2010, 58). By declaring the war on terror, al-​Sisi created a threat that legitimised pre-​emptive action against a threat he had created. According to Maha Abderahman (2017, 193), “Since the military takeover of 2013 a public discourse has evolved that churns out incessant accounts in which enemies of the Egyptian state and its people, external and internal, known and unknown, real and imaginary, human and otherwise, are constantly conspiring to plot against the country and target its security, as well as the health of its national economy.” Similar to Sara Ahmed’s affective economy of fear and Paul Amar’s securitisation paradigm, Massumi suggests an ecological approach in order to understand how different regimes of power interact and develop together (2010, 62). The main recurring argument is that fear gains momentum through international circulation. Thus, both Ahmed and Massumi’s work on the war on terror in the US finds resonance in Egypt’s war on terror. These regimes of power do not only interact but are also largely dependent on each other. Al-​Sisi’s threat has a domestic and a global function: The domestic threat is linked to the regional context, as the alternative to al-​Sisi’s rule is posited as Egypt falling into civil war, akin to Syria. The global threat that al-​Sisi waves constantly in discussions with his European allies is illegal immigration. If Egypt becomes another Syria, millions of refugees and illegal migrants will make their way to Europe; this threat in turn finds resonance with Europe’s migration crisis. The narratives

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  109 are interdependent, creating and feeding into a “global atmosphere of fear” (Massumi, 2010), or an “affective economy of fear” (Ahmed, 2004). One of the main functions of threat is polarisation, to create a definitive line between who is with us and who is against us. Ahmed affirms, “Through the generation of ‘the threat,’ fear works to align bodies with and against the other” (2004, 72). The alignment of bodies is not a mere by-​product of fear, it is one of its purposes. It creates two movements: one away from the object of fear, and the other toward the object of love, safety and security. “Rather than fear getting in the way of love, we can see that fear allows the subject to get closer to the loved object. […] In this sense, fear reinforces loves, solidifies collectives and aligns bodies” (Ahmed 2004, 68, 71). When al-​Sisi asked protestors to take to the streets on the day of the mandate, he was not simply co-​opting street protests as a mode of resistance against the regime, he was also asking for the alignment of bodies with the nation against the potential threat of terrorism. When thousands of protestors took to the streets on the day of the mandate, they were declaring their love for Egypt and for al-​Sisi as the embodiment of the nation. They were aligning their bodies with the nation. The widespread use of Egyptian flags, not just during demonstrations but also in people’s homes, supports Ahmed’s notion that “the flag is a sticky sign” (Ahmed 2004, 74) that symbolises people declaring their love for the nation and sticking together against the threat of violence. Moreover, Ahmed outlines the relation between self-​love and patriotic love and calls it “collective narcissism.” “Self-​love becomes a national love that legitimates the response to terror as protection of the loved other, who may be ‘with me’ by showing signs (such as flags) of being ‘like me’ ” (Ahmed, 2004, 75). I find this to be a productive and more nuanced approach to nationalism, one that takes into consideration the complexities of emotions, especially the interplay between fear and love. People love the nation because they love themselves, and loving the nation becomes an expression of collective self-​love. The bodies, or in al-​Sisi’s narrative “the honourable citizens,” who choose to align themselves with the nation become the embodiment of the nation. “Fear might be concerned with the preservation not simply of ‘me,’ but also ‘us,’ or ‘what is,’ or ‘life as we know it,’ or even ‘life itself’ ” (Ahmed, 2004, 64). This alignment of bodies necessities the construction of the “other” who is against the nation—​the terrorist, the thug, the protestor, or in Egypt’s case all of them. Sara Ahmed (2004) and Astride Zolberg (2002) chronicle the expansion of power in European countries, the Australian government, and the United States in the wake of the September 11 attacks through the passing of anti-​ terrorism legislation that targeted Arab, Muslim and Middle Eastern bodies as objects of fear (Zolberg, 2002). The same happened in Egypt after al-​Sisi declared the war on terror. Under the guise of counterterrorism, several laws were passed that were used to prosecute activists, journalists and opposition figures. On 15 August 2015, Abdel Fattah al-​Sisi issued a counterterrorism law that expanded the government’s power to enforce heavy sentences, including

110  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi capital punishment, and has been used repeatedly in the last few years. The definition of terrorism in the law has been kept intentionally broad to encompass any act of opposition. According to a report by Human Rights Watch: The law makes it a crime to publish or promote news about terrorism if it contradicts the Defense Ministry’s official statements and would allow the courts to temporarily ban journalists from practicing their profession for doing so. It also makes anyone judged to have facilitated, incited, or agreed to a vaguely defined terrorist crime –​whether in public or in private –​liable for the same penalty that they would receive if they had committed that crime, even if the crime does not occur. The law eliminates any time limit for bringing terrorism prosecutions. (Human Rights Watch, 2015) According to Egyptian Human Rights activist Amr Hamzawy (2017), “Egypt’s ruling generals have also adapted legal tools to systematically persecute political enemies, both real and imagined.” (Hamzawy, 2017, 393) That the figure of the terrorist is always shifting makes the threat always present and real. In his speech, al-​Sisi divides the country into two: honourable citizens who love the nation and stand with him against terrorists, and those who are calling for Egypt’s demise. Anyone who opposes al-​Sisi, then, opposes the nation and is a possible terrorist. Fear is associated with certain bodies but does not reside in one figure—​in the terrorist, the protestor, the baltagi—​these categories can all collapse, justifying the control of any/​all of them. The narrative of the “honourable citizen” is neither new nor specific to Egypt. In the wake of 9/​ 11, George Bush called upon citizens to police suspicious others. “The role of citizens as police is translated as an imperative to love” (Ahmed, 2004, 79). In Egypt, this translated into societal polarisation and mass violence. The polarisation of 2013 split many Egyptian families, including my own, down the middle. One of my interlocutors, an activist from Tanta, recounted several cases to me where parents reported their own children to the authorities. “All around Egypt, people were reporting their own kids. Someone I know personally, his father reported him, and the young man was going to die from torture in prison” (Kamel interview, 2016).30 Maha Abdelrahman argues: Living under such a constant state of crisis and emergency inevitably shapes the wider political culture, creating an ‘emergency mentality’ among the general population, which in turn renders ordinary citizens willing informants. A ‘disciplinary society’ is created in the Foucauldian sense under a relentless panoptic machine ordering the behaviour of individuals. A concomitant development has been the fuelling of existing tensions between competing groups in society and the turning of citizens against each other in order to create a ‘culture of informing.’ (2017, 47–​48)

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  111 This polarisation escalated, culminating in the Rabaa massacre in August 2013. Rabaa massacre: no safe exit On 14 August 2013, at 6:30am, security forces enacted one of the most atrocious spectacles of violence, resulting in the highest number of deaths of protestors in a day in recent Egyptian history. Using armoured personnel carriers (APCs), bulldozers, ground forces, snipers, police and army personnel, they killed at least 817—​possibly nearer to 1000—​protestors (Human Rights Watch, 2014). This happened during the day and in the midst of one of Cairo’s busiest areas. I was personally on the street close to Rabaa that morning, which is very near where I live in Cairo. The whole area was cordoned off, so you could not really see what was happening from a distance, but I saw the fumes, smelled the teargas, and saw the many army tanks surrounding the area. It was like a scene from a war zone. I argue that the Rabaa Square massacre was meant to be a spectacle of violence that would halt contentious politics in Egypt and would send a clear and harsh signal that street protests would not be tolerated by the Egyptian government. I believe that this incident had an influential, far-​ reaching impact on political organisation, not just within political Islam, but on all political factions who were engaged in street mobilisation. The heavy armoury, the bulldozers, the number of personnel, the death toll, was all meant as a show of force, reinstating the ultimate power of a dictatorial state that would not hesitate to kill protestors in mass numbers. This completely changed the rules of engagement and showed that the price of organising or participating in mass protests would be much higher than in the years preceding. Taking to the streets no longer became a viable option for many in Egypt after that day. Given the significance of this incident, I discuss briefly in this section the details and level of state involvement in planning the massacre. President Mohamed Morsi was deposed by the military on 3 July 2013, following massive protests calling for early presidential elections. In response, between July and August the Muslim Brotherhood organised several protests all around Egypt, including two large sit-​ins in Cairo in Rabaa al-​Adawiya Square in Nasr City and in El Nahda Square in Giza. The Rabaa sit-​in lasted around forty-​five days. Before the violent dispersal of Rabaa, there were several incidents of mass shootings and the killing of pro-​Morsi protestors: On 5 July, soldiers fired at protestors gathered outside the Republican Guard headquarters on Salah Salem Street in Cairo, where they believed Morsi was being held, killing at least five protestors. On 8 July, the military shot pro-​Morsi protestors gathered in front of the Republican Guard headquarters, killing 61 protestors. On 27 July, police fired at demonstrators near the Manassa Memorial, killing at least 95. The military repeatedly denied any wrongdoing and claimed it was under attack by an armed terrorist group. In preparation for the dispersal of the Rabaa and El Nahda sit-​ins, the government stressed the urgency of dealing with the situation and garnered the support needed to carry out the mass killing of protestors. Among its justifications for violent

112  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi intervention were: the disturbance to traffic, the suffering of the residents in the area, that violence and sectarianism was being incited from the stages in the sit-​ins, and, most importantly, that protestors were kidnapping and torturing people they perceived to be infiltrators. These narratives were never confirmed, but the main government discourse that this was a “violent sit-​in,” filled with armed protestors who were harassing, kidnapping, torturing and killing people, was believed by many. The entire sit-​in was criminalised and treated as such. Meanwhile, and directly linked to the government’s narrative that used every available media outlet to vilify the Muslim Brotherhood, societal violence was on the rise, with clashes between pro-​and anti-​Morsi protestors throughout Egypt. Again, in a similar vein but on a wider scale, the state used the strategy of radio and rumour, discussed above, to incite the necessary affect to mobilise for mass killing, and to justify the Maspero massacre. Pro-​Morsi protestors were repeatedly dehumanised in preparation for mass killing. The narrative that was valorised in al-​Sisi’s speech on 24 July 2013 calling for a mandate to fight potential terrorism escalated, and the “need for the violent dispersal of these sit-​ins” and the “use of strong force against terrorists” was repeated by all media outlets in Egypt. The figure of the protestor began to be increasingly conflated with the figure of the terrorist. After al-​Sisi’s aforementioned speech, the minister of interior, interim President Adly Mansour, and the prime minister, began to give speeches and to circulate press releases promoting the importance of using all decisive measures to counter violence and terrorism. During this time, international mediation efforts were also underway to negotiate a deal, in order to avoid a violent dispersal of the sit-​ins. The African Union, United States, European Union, and some Gulf countries were involved in these talks. On 7 August, Egypt’s interim president and then prime minister announced the failure of mediation efforts and the decision to disperse the sit-​ ins, which they said was final. The Interior Ministry prepared a dispersal plan that was approved by the National Defence Council. The exact time and date of the dispersal, however, was never made public. Official statements by the interior minister and interim prime minister speculated that casualties would be in the range of 10–​25 percent of protestors, which was considered collateral damage to a certain extent. The authorities repeatedly promised a gradual dispersal; however, according to Human Rights Watch, this was not at all what happened (Human Rights Watch, 2014). The report suggests protestors were besieged most of the day, and that police fired at those who were trying to escape. Snipers and ground forces attacked protestors with ammunition, tear gas canisters and army bulldozers for at least twelve hours. The dead and injured were piled up in a makeshift field hospital, where volunteer doctors tried to attend to the wounded, but were also targeted, along with anyone seen entering or exiting Rabaa Hospital. Around 6pm, security forces took control of the square and the hospital. A fire broke out, engulfing all the tents, the mosque, the hospital and the centre stage. According to Human Rights Watch (2014), witnesses say security forces started this fire. Over 800 protestors

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  113 were arrested that day. Concurrently, and in a similar pattern, security forces dispersed Al-​Nahda Square sit-​in in Giza. The Ministry of Health reported that 87 people were killed in these dispersals. The government calculated and planned the violent dispersal of the two sit-​ins, knowing that the death toll could amount to more than 1000 people. Human Rights Watch considered the massacre of 14 August 2013, a crime against humanity (2014), recognising that there seemed to have been a plan or policy to use excessive lethal force that would lead to significant loss of life. Resounding silence The government enacted a curfew following the violent dispersal of Rabaa and Al-​Nahda, and it was the most strictly adhered to since the 25 January revolution. I was in Cairo, and it was as if time had stopped. Hanan Sabea (2013) argues the eighteen days of the Egyptian revolution was a rupture. I argue that the Rabaa dispersal also constitutes a rupture—​a temporal break that enabled the re-​emergence of an authoritarian regime and announced the end of street mobilisation. This was a show of force that aimed to crush one of the temporary gains of the January 2011 revolution, namely the reclaiming of the streets as a political space. The use of lethal force during daylight at Rabaa was meant to terrorise, and it did. Maria Frederika Malmström writes an account of the days that immediately followed the dispersal, highlighting the eerie silence in a city known for its liveliness, which she believes signalled the emergence of a new Cairo (Malmström, 2014). My argument is that the sound of silence is even more intense than sound, although both materialize emotions which will influence future politics in Egypt. The sound of war—​shootings, helicopters, shouting voices, sirens—​ have been part of the soundscape of Egypt since the uprisings of January 2011. The sound of silence, implemented by the interim government during mid-​August 2013, had not been an element of the soundscape before. The sound of silence is a totally altered rhythm. […] The new Egyptian regime creates its own territory, changing and controlling bodies through the vibrations of helicopters and aircraft, as well as through the painful touch of teargas and the sound of silence during curfew. Sounds, or the lack thereof, stimulate, produce disorientation, transform and control. […] I believe that the different rhythm of the new soundscape, the absence of sound, does more than sound, something much more dangerous. It produces an ambience of strain and uncertainty. The sound of silence means a loss of navigation, a temporary lapse in orientation. It is important to identify and attend to this vibrational politics of disruption and the affective mobilization of bodies in rhythm as a phenomenon that can be exploited by contesting forces as a form of political violence. (Malmström, 2014, 30–​33)

114  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi I have personally experienced what Malmström describes—​the looming sense of an end, or the beginning of something frightening that is unfolding. Rabaa cannot be seen as a singular event but should be viewed as a key moment within almost two-​and-​a-​half years of state-​sponsored violence, during which Egyptians had, to a great extent, normalised images and videos of violence and death, from Tahrir, to Maspero, to Mohamed Mahmoud. Over time, people’s reactions changed, and their empathy decreased. This emboldened the state, which moved from late night violence in Tahrir to the Rabaa dispersal in daylight within a busy residential area. By this point the regime did not fear a backlash, and fully desired to use the spectacle of violence to deter people from further occupying public space. Interestingly, the silence around Rabaa manifested in the difficulty of talking about Rabaa. It loomed and haunted every conversation I had; yet, in the early interviews at least, it was not openly discussed. It took me a while to make sense of this ever-​present absence of Rabaa, and to realise that I was also part of this silence. I too found it difficult to talk about Rabaa, my involvement or lack thereof in the events leading to and following the massacre, so I went along with the omission by my interlocutors. I was ready to say, “we do not have to talk about this,” when someone experienced discomfort. Riddled with ethical dilemmas and lack of training to talk about a massacre, something that took place three years before I started my fieldwork, I resorted to ignoring such a pivotal moment. My research focus was not on Rabaa to begin with, yet it was always there, referred to constantly by my interlocutors as “what happened in 2013,” because they resisted even naming it. As if naming makes it more real. As I reflected on my own emotions and positionality with regards the summer of 2013, and tried to pose the questions, I was met with resistance. Many of those who participated in the Rabaa sit-​in who I was able to reach were reluctant to talk about their experiences. This was partly for security reasons, as, when I started my fieldwork in 2016, anyone who was linked to the Muslim brotherhood in any way was targeted and surveilled. They had serious security concerns that I could not refute. It was not just about trust, they were also concerned that I might be arrested and interrogated, and that they may be exposed through me. I could try to build trust, but I could not know if I would ever be arrested in Egypt because of my research. One woman I met as a potential interlocutor explained to me that, even if she would be willing to take the risk and talk to me, and introduce me to others, she is too traumatised to talk about what happened. She said that even talking to me about a potential interview was difficult for her, that just bringing up Rabaa was enough to bring back difficult flashbacks and memories of the death she witnessed on the day of the dispersal. In a meeting with another woman, organised by trusted friends, I was questioned at length about my research and hardly had a chance to ask any questions. After a common friend explained that the woman’s son was in jail, she briefly described the fear she was living under herself, and the extreme measures she had to take to avoid being arrested by the authorities. She was constantly busy trying to survive the aftermath of Rabaa. Though

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  115 the emotion was clearly present, and I saw a tear in her eye as she mentioned her son, there was no space to talk about such things, or about the dispersal. Shortly after these two meetings, I attempted to conduct another interview with a friend who has close ties with the Muslim Brotherhood. Shortly before the interview, she emailed me saying that she had a panic attack and could not come to meet me and speak about Rabaa. I understood deeply this reluctance and resistance as I personally found it difficult to talk about Rabaa. The materiality of the situation, the security concerns people had and the attempts just to survive living under an authoritarian regime necessitated emotional silence and an inability to show vulnerability or talk about emotions, for many of the people I spoke to. The silence that was felt in Cairo’s empty streets after the dispersal of Rabaa (Malmström 2014) transformed into a silence about Rabaa. A silence that is still heavy and resounding. Crippling guilt The most widespread narrative during the summer of 2013 was that the Muslim Brotherhood is the root of all evil and therefore brought this on themselves. This rhetoric was exploited by the regime and fed by the media, with people calling on Abdel Fattah al-​Sisi to “squash the brotherhood” (ofrom ya Sisi). The dehumanisation of Islamists and the Brotherhood, in particular, peaked that summer and enabled people to justify all kinds of violence against them. In the following narrative, Kamel, an activist in his early forties from Tanta, tells me about societal violence that he witnessed in Tanta after the Rabaa dispersal. In Ramdan (2013), the Brotherhood tried to hold a sit-​in here in front of a hospital. They put up tents, but then thugs and security forces came in and tore down the tents and beat them up. They hid in the hospital and a nearby mosque. They were besieged by security and arrested from the hospital and mosque. After the dispersal of Rabaa there was an inhuman massacre taking place here between anyone with a beard and everyone else. The clashes were between normal citizens. The media is telling you that those people (the Brotherhood) are infidels who sold Egypt just like what happened in Maspero when the anchorwoman came out to tell Muslims to come to the aid of the army and that Copts are killing the Egyptian army. Three people were slayed in front of the governorate building by thugs and the police did not intervene, and this incident was never investigated. The Muslim Brotherhood mobilised people and there was a big march here following the dispersal of Rabaa of 50-​or 60,000 people and the army fired at them with big machine guns. The big trees all had holes in them because of the shootings. Some protestors died. They denied the injured access to the hospital. We were a group of revolutionaries who were standing there trying to protect the injured or to release people from thugs and take them to the hospital. The security forces and thugs did not attack us because

116  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi they knew that we are from the revolution (not from the Brotherhood). The Egyptian people did not hate the January revolutionaries because they believed in their cause and their revolution and did not butcher them in the streets. Personally, for a year-​and-​a-​half I protested in Tanta against SCAF [the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces] from 11 February until Morsi became president. I used to protest SCAF every Friday and no one shot me, nor did a thug try to kill me. But as soon as the Muslim Brotherhood fell, people slaughtered them on the streets. State media was telling people that these are traitors and should be killed. I saw something that I will never forget all my life. A poor man who went out on that day to work, he had with him some ful and bread and he was on his bike. He probably did not know this was the day of the dispersal of Rabaa. He was wearing a galabbiya and he was in his fifties. They took him, beat him up and cut off his fingers. I saw him and tried to intervene but they kept saying he is Ikhwan [Muslim Brotherhood]. Sometimes one regrets that he took to the streets on 30 June when you see those things. To be honest, I went out on 30 June, but not on the day of the mandate. (Kamel Interview 2016)31 Throughout the interview, Kamel was trying to explain to me why he had always been against the Muslim Brotherhood, and why people hated them so much, compared to the 25 January revolutionaries. He was also constantly reflecting on the violence that he witnessed, and his shifting position from someone who tried to help, to a bystander who believed that the Brotherhood had antagonised and alienated the people to the point of justifying their slaughter, to someone who critically pointed out the role of mass media in the societal violence he had witnessed. I could relate profoundly to this position, as someone who took to the streets on 30 June but not on the day of the mandate. I also struggled to make sense of the violent events that took place and my role in them, just like most of my interlocutors. Some of them wanted to make a clear distinction between their involvement in 30 June and their rejection of the day of the mandate. When I took to the streets, it was in protest of the ‘Muslim Brotherhood’ regime. But once al-​Sisi asked people to delegate him, I did not know what I was supposed to do. I understood that this man was going to murder the protestors in Rabaa, and it was quite understandable that if we took part in this we would be partners in the massacre that took place after. (Amany Interview, 2016)32 The question of the role and responsibility of those who opposed the Muslim Brotherhood was central to people’s narratives around Rabaa. Crippling guilt was another persistent narrative, particularly among activists who had also opposed the Brotherhood, or at least didn’t express solidarity with Rabaa, until it was too late. It is a narrative that has also been propagated by the

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  117 Brotherhood and its supporters, who have labelled all those who opposed them as regime collaborators. In trying to answer the important question of how such an exceptional level of violence was widely accepted by Egyptian society in 2013, Nicola Pratt and Dina Rezk argue that non-​state actors played a crucial role in identifying the Muslim Brotherhood as a significant threat, and provided political cover for the military to be reinstituted as the legitimate actor capable of protecting Egypt (Pratt and Rezk, 2019). Pratt and Rezk adopt a Gramscian concept of civil society and highlight the fluidity between independent and co-​opted non-​state actors. However, the article does not tackle the reasons as to why independent and co-​opted actors acted in uniformity. If we follow Ann Stoler’s argument, which also builds on Gramsci, that the role of the state is not just to “educate consent,” but also to harvest the needed affective dispositions that make such consent possible, then one can begin to understand some of the reasons why people acted as they did, and the state’s implication in such processes. The summer of 2013 was a perplexing time in Egypt. Many political activists were both anti-​Morsi and anti-​military, and they struggled to find a space as the polarisation heightened. Blurring the lines between independent and co-​opted actors, as Pratt and Rezk do, further deepens this polarised version of events, and assumes that all anti-​Morsi activists were pro-​military. This argument has many problematic facets to it, especially at a time when many activists in Egypt struggle with feelings of guilt related to their political actions. Through the Tamarod campaign and al-​Sisi’s mandate call, the regime played a major role in diffusing guilt and complicity in its violent practices and in entrenching polarisation. The result is a sense of guilt that is crippling political action, especially grassroots action and political protests. The link between participating in anti-​Morsi political action and the Rabaa massacre has been established by the regime, the Brotherhood and academic papers discussing this period. The question of the complicity of anti-​ Morsi political actors is daunting. There is a sense of guilt that makes actors reluctant to act and doubtful of the results of their own political actions, regardless of their intentions. The co-​optation of anti-​Morsi protests showed how relatively easily the regime could appropriate political action to justify mass violence. This created a feeling that protests can be a dangerous tool in the hands of the regime, or downright void of meaning. In the following data excerpt, I discuss feelings of guilt with a feminist activist. A close friend of hers was arrested in a demonstration against Egypt’s anti-​protest law and she was in prison for fifteen months. This affected her greatly and influenced the way she assessed the importance and validity of political action: When you talk about 2013, I remember it was a very frustrating year. I remember I spent most of January going back and forth to the airport to see someone off. Everyone just kept leaving the country for one reason or another. It was really frustrating and people were leaving for different reasons; those who emigrated, those who left to get their Master’s degree,

118  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi those who left for personal reasons, and those who sought asylum. That year, the curve was going up all the way toward anger. I think those who stuck around from the newcomers in 2011 are not newcomers anymore and they are not as fresh actually. They are carrying around a huge baggage of fear and anger—​directed toward themselves in the first place and toward their friends as well. Whenever something happens to our friends, we feel guilty, and guilt is a very terrible feeling. We say, ‘we’re not scared of prison’ all the time, quoting Mahienour,33 but we definitely don’t like it. And if someone didn’t go through the experience, they can’t talk about it. Yes, people feel guilty, but there is a problem with that. I’ll give you an example, last April, during the Tiran and Sanafir case,34 a lot of people got arrested, and when the sentence was announced that they would be released but with bail, we managed to raise four million LE, and that is a big chunk of money. Everyone was collecting donations and we were cheering because we are managing to get them out. And some people even donated hundreds of thousands. But at the end of the day, most of the people paying were doing so out of guilt towards their friends and colleagues, and at the same time, no one wants those little kids to be sent to prison. Most of those arrested were in their twenties. Those who called for the protest and those who told those kids that taking to the streets and protesting paves the way for political change. We are deceiving them that way. We encouraged this sense of sacrifice. And what exactly are Tiran and Sanafir? Those kids have no idea where those islands are on the map! And all of a sudden, national pride was spread everywhere! And kids were getting arrested in a small street in Dokki. It is just stupid. (Dalia Interview, 2016)35 Questioning the validity of political action in the face of repression has been common among activists since 2013, leading some, such as Dalia, to believe that the right thing to do in the face of such repression is not to protest. Moreover, she believes the responsible thing for political activists is not to encourage protests, and if they do so then they are also responsible for the imprisonment of the protestors who take to the streets. This is a sense of fear and guilt that extends beyond fear of one’s own safety to the fear of the safety of their comrades. In this context, guilt justifies political inaction. In the following narrative, another feminist activist tells me about his experience with friends who were riddled with guilt, and fought with him whenever he wanted to go out and protest: I felt helpless. But I was surrounded by many people who felt deep guilt. Guilt makes you act in an illogic manner. For instance, when we used to decide to go to a protest, my older friend would fight with me and that always made me think, ‘What’s up, mom?’ [He laughs]. I know where she is coming from and I have empathy toward her, but I wanted to seize every chance to say no, because I felt like it was killing me. It was killing something inside

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  119 me. That you cannot say ‘No!’ There were moments when I was afraid of losing the ability to say no. That made me regress what was inside me. And there’s something else, the people around me were abusing drugs. I lost a lot of friends. Everyone was abusing drugs. It was insane. And people stopped going out, and there was no chance for anyone to do anything. It was very obvious that everyone was abusing drugs to the extent that even parties were all about drugs. So I started losing my sense of belonging to people. I started feeling like I was dealing with drugs, not people, all the time. That made it all so hard. I had to exert more effort and be extra careful to take care of myself. Self-​care was extremely hard. (Sherif interview, 2016)36 It is clear from my interlocutors’ narratives that the summer of 2013 was a difficult time for them on many levels. They mentioned many emotions when we discussed this period, and confusion featured prominently in their narratives. In the last months of 2013, I could see nothing but that struggle. That was because my family included Muslim Brotherhood members and people in my family got killed. I suffered from personal problems at home. I faced many difficult situations as a woman who is part of a certain family and who worked a certain job in a human rights organization that focused at the time on documenting the violations that took place. We were not safe and the whole situation was psychologically disturbing. I could not follow up the rest of the causes and I did not necessarily know what was going on. I was confused. There was collective confusion. (Manar interview, 2016)37 Helplessness, guilt and an utter sense of confusion led to political inaction. It is true that fear of repression was present, but activists also had their own questions about the usefulness of political action in relation to the sacrifices they had made. One could even argue that not protesting was intentional and a tactical response to the regime’s co-​optation of political protests and grassroots action. In the below data excerpt, Amany explains to me the reasons why she and others are no longer protesting: There’s no heroism in imprisonment. The feelings about this have changed completely because the people who went in and got out told us stories and we know how inhumane it is. The reality is ordinary people go to prison and everyone forgets about them and no one knows about them. We don’t protest anymore because people are afraid to get arrested because no one wants to go to prison. This is really sad because people are afraid to do anything because they don’t want to be sent to prison. There are no guarantees that you will come out of prison the same person and you cannot help anyone in prison. The reality is we are not afraid to die, but now the danger is not death, it is prison and prison is worse than death. It is now stupid to go to protest because you will go to prison. The last 25 January [2016] was the

120  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi first time since the revolution when no one even dared to propose a protest. Because they started arresting people because of an intent to protest or the call to protest, it became a joke. Someone wrote ‘we will not go to Tahrir, you sons of bitches.’ This is how far it went. People are NOT going to protest. They [the government] have paranoia and hysteria because this is really the first time that people are not going to protest. No one wants to go down to protest. Most people think if you protest then you are a coward and you are betraying the nation, and this is what is being shown in the media. You are Ikhwan [the Muslim Brotherhood]. There is no way to get support for any protest. The government was able to convince the people that you are either with them or against them. But the mood of the streets is now changing. People are now calling Sisi out, it is changing. (Amany interview, 2016)38 Imprisonment has historically been one of the ways in which successive Egyptian regimes have systematically tried to break political leaders and create an example out of their suffering, in order to serve as a warning for anyone thinking of following in their path. Fear of repression was one of the main reasons that led to political inaction in Egypt after 2013, but it was not the only one. Activists’ feelings of helplessness, guilt and confusion, and their questioning of the impact of their actions, played a major role in the subsequent events. Tears of the patriarch Coercion and repression are not the only ways in which the Egyptian regime uses emotions to govern, as illustrated by al-​Sisi’s mandate call and huge popular response. Interestingly, Abdel Fattah al-​Sisi is one of the most publicly emotional Egyptian leaders. To give a concrete example, al-​Sisi has been filmed crying during public events and speeches more than any other Egyptian president. To complicate the story further and highlight the nuances of how the Egyptian regime uses emotions, I want to reflect on al-​Sisi’s tears. A turning point in the Egyptian revolution was Mubarak’s heartfelt speech, in which he pleaded with “his people,” especially the youth on the streets, whom he called his sons and daughters, and referenced his sacrifice for the nation during the 1973 war, asking them to give him a chance to leave peacefully through elections. He emotionally declared that he would die in Egypt, in the land he loves so much. Even though the speech was “presidential,” in the sense that it was written in formal (fusha) Arabic and not colloquial Egyptian, and he didn’t shed a tear, it moved millions of people, even some of those who initially empathised with his immediate removal. Many analysts and participants believe that, if it were not for the “the battle of the camels” that took place the very next day, revolutionaries might not have been able to sustain mobilisation. I argue that this is a lesson the Egyptian state has learned very well. Mubarak’s speech marks a discursive shift in how the patriarch addresses the nation. If

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  121 we look back through Egyptian history to Mubarak’s predecessors’ speeches, namely those of Nasser and Sadat, there are several speeches highly charged with emotions, but these are mostly surrounding dramatic incidents, such as the defeat of 1967, or Sadat’s speech at the Israeli parliament after the 1973 war. None of them shed a tear. The image of the strong, capable, rational and non-​emotional patriarch remained intact for years. Hisham Sharabi characterised post-​ colonial Arab states as “neo-​ patriarchal” in cases where modernisation was accepted in the public sphere while gender norms were upheld in the name of preserving traditions, values and identities (Sharabi, 1992). The head of the nation, the president, was seen as the ultimate patriarch and the benevolent father—​head of a big family that is the nation, with all its citizens as his sons and daughters. The family unit with all its problematics came to be a smaller representation of the nation, and the nation became seen as a reflection of the family unit—​both structures reproducing each other. The mass mobilisations of 2011 brought these gender complexities to the forefront. The practices of protestors—​ whether men or women, young or old, from different social classes—​defied certain gender norms. We could say that this was an exceptional time that required a suspension of the gender order (Wahba, 2016), but we could also trace something that lingered on beyond the squares, which also triggered state strategies of co-​optation and backlash. I believe that we cannot view events in 2011 as a single incident, but as the culmination of years of contestation of the gender order that led to open opposition of the ultimate national patriarch, Mubarak. When the ousted president came out and tried to gain the people’s empathy by reaching out to protestors and calling them his sons and daughters, protestors held their shoes in the face of the patriarch, transgressing gender norms (Hafez, 2012). Mubarak’s emotional speech (it was even coined this way, “Al Khitab El ‘Atefy” [The emotional speech]) may not have been successful in changing the course of the revolution, but it seems that the lesson lingered. Abdel Fattah al-​Sisi had been known to use an emotional narrative even before he became president. His use of intimate language addressing the Egyptian people is unparalleled in comparison to his predecessors. One of al-​Sisi’s first famous quotes is, “This people [Egyptians] never found someone to treat them with tenderness” (Haza el-​sha’ab lam yagid min yahno ‘aleh) (Al-​Masry Al-​Youm,, 2015).39 During a speech in October 2013 addressing the Egyptian people, he said, “Don’t you know that you are the light of our eyes” (Ento mish ‘arfen en ento nour ‘anena wala eh) (YouTube, 2014).40 These emotional statements earned him the love of many Egyptians. He was portrayed as the tough but fair patriarch, who expresses his love for his people. Moreover, on more than one occasion, al-​Sisi was filmed with tears in his eyes. One incident (out of many) stands out, during a ceremony celebrating national Police Day in 2018 (which also corresponds with 25 January) (YouTube, 2018).41 Al-​Sisi was commemorating “the children and the families of the martyrs of the police force” (this is how the state officially

122  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi refers to officers who died in the line of duty). On this occasion, a young girl came forward to receive her late father’s medal and started crying. Al-​Sisi teared up as he hugged her, lovingly comforting her and drying her tears to the applause of the crowd. This is the image of a loving father who is easily moved to tears. Al-​Sisi takes great care to show his people that he is kind, empathetic, and vulnerable; a people who, according to him, “never found someone to treat them with tenderness.” This selectively performed grief signals to the nation who is worthy of the patriarch’s tears and who is worthy of his wrath. Conclusion We live in a global economy of fear, built around the fear of Middle Eastern bodies denoted as terrorists. This chapter demonstrates how the protestor came to be labelled a “terrorist” or baltagi, or both, in certain discourses, depending on their political affiliations and social class. Fear has been utilised by states to either expand or contain certain individuals: the bodies of “honourable citizens” are expanded, as the bodies of protestors—​the “possible terrorists” are restricted. The early days of the Arab revolutions opened up a space in which Middle Eastern bodies might be perceived as protestors calling for democracy. It was a moment that challenged the global order cemented by the September 11 attacks and questioned the legitimacy of an international security regime that targets Arab, Muslim or Middle Eastern bodies. Thus, the state’s deliberate re-​invoking of the terrorist trope was not just an easy way to attack political Islam, it also resonated with international security paradigms, relocating Middle Eastern bodies back to “where they belong.” The state-​propagated narrative was that people on the streets were not peaceful protestors, they were terrorists who needed a strong leader, or even dictator, to control them and keep them away from European shores. Successive Egyptian regimes have made masterful use of emotions to govern, not just through fear and coercion but also through playing on notions of nationalism and engaging “honourable citizens” in this endeavour. President Abdel Fattah al-​Sisi has been able to employ an emotional narrative that appeals to a large sector of the Egyptian population, and hence rally the needed support for mass violence against his opposition. Through various means of emotional and affective management, discussed throughout this chapter, al-​Sisi was able to harvest the necessary dispositions to counter the affective register of the 25 January Egyptian revolution. Notes 1 Link to the full speech: www.yout​ube.com. (2019). YouTube [online]. Available at: www.yout​ube.com/​watch?time_​c​onti​nue=​3&v=​oQ0X​zQ24​z08 [accessed 28 October 2019].

The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi  123 2 According to a report compiled by Rosa Luxemburg Stiftung: Rosalux.de. (2018). Egypt under Sisi [online]. Available at: www.rosa​lux.de/​en/​news/​id/​39467/​egypt-​ under-​sisi/​ [accessed 30 Oct. 2019]. 3 In November 2013, Egypt’s interim government adopted a protest law that heavily restricted the right to protest and freedom of assembly. Amr Hamzawy (2016) wrote about the effects of the anti-​protest law. For more information about the law: https://​ carneg​ieen​dowm​ent.org/​2016/​11/​24/​egypt-​s-​anti-​prot​est-​law-​leg​alis​ing-​autho​rita​ rian​ism-​pub-​66274. The link to the law itself: http://​cons​titu​tion​net.org/​sites/​defa​ ult/​files/​protes​t_​la​w_​is​sued​_​nov​_​24.pdf 4 al-​shaab yurid isqat al-​nizam 5 Tamarod (rebellion) campaign was a grassroots protest movement in Egypt against former President Mohammed Morsy. The group claimed that it had collected more than 22 million signatures for a petition that demanded Morsy step down and the holding of early presidential elections. Controversy arose over the origins of Tamarod and its relationship to the state, with some analysts linking the campaign to Egyptian intelligence and national security. An article published by the Washington Post discusses the relationship between the Tamarod campaign and Egypt’s generals: www.was​hing​tonp​ost.com/​news/​mon​key-​cage/​wp/​2017/​07/​03/​ how-​e gy​p ts-​g ener​a ls-​u sed-​s tr​e et-​p rote​s ts-​t o-​s tage-​a -​c oup/​? utm_​t​e rm=​. 44e1b​ 5c33​716 6 YouTube (2015). ‫المذيعة‬/​ ‫[ ماسبيرو في األقباط قتل على علني وتحريض مجدي رشا‬online]. Available at: www.yout​ube.com/​watch?v=​b9g9​InVD​FXU&t=​70s [accessed 29 October 2019]. Translation author’s own. 7 HRW report on the Maspero massacre: Human Rights Watch (2011). Egypt: Don’t Cover Up Military Killing of Copt Protesters [online] Available at: www.hrw.org/​ news/​2011/​10/​25/​egypt-​dont-​cover-​milit​ary-​kill​ing-​copt-​pro​test​ers [accessed 29 October 2019]. 8 858.MA. (2019). Maspero Massacre, Maspero testimonies, Mona Seif Testimony (2011-​ 10-​ 15) (2011) [online]. Available at: https://​858.ma/​ABV/​pla​yer/​00:36:00 [accessed 30 October 2019]. The video is part of the 858 archive, an initiative by The Mosireen Collective that started after the revolution and aims to preserve the memory of what happened during and after the 25 January revolution. 9 The 2011 Alexandria bombing was an attack on Coptic Christians in Alexandria, Egypt, on Saturday 1 January 2011. Twenty-​three people died and another ninety-​ seven were injured as a result of the attack, which occurred as Christian worshipers were leaving a New Year’s service. The target of the bombing was the Saints Church (Al Kedeseen). 10 Focus Group Discussion, Kirollos, Cairo, 21 January 2017. 11 Focus Group Discussion, Kirollos, Cairo, 21 January 2017. 12 Ibid. 13 For more information about Tahrir monologues: Ahram Online. (2012). Tahrir Monologues: Storytelling the highs and lows of revolution, Street Smart, Folk [online]. Available at: http://​engl​ish.ahram.org.eg/​News​Cont​ent/​32/​97/​50350/​Folk/​ Str​eet-​Smart/​Tah​rir-​Mon​olog​ues-​Story​tell​ing-​the-​highs-​and-​lows-​.aspx [Accessed 30 October 2019]. 14 On 19 November 2011, clashes started in Mohamed Mahmoud Street between security forces and protestors. The protests followed the violent dispersal of a sit-​in organized by the families of those killed or injured in the 25 January revolution. More than forty people were killed.

124  The (re)making of terrorist and baltagi 15 A protest sit-​in in front of the Cabinet of Ministers that lasted for three weeks protesting the appointment of Kamal El Ganzoui as prime minister. On 16 December, the sit-​in was dispersed violently, and seven people were killed. 16 Personal interview, Samer, Cairo, 17 May 2016. 17 An important highway. 18 Salah Salem is an arterial road that connects the great Cairo region. Thus, blocking such roads causes major traffic jams and disruption to urban life. 19 An area in Cairo’s Islamic quarter. 20 A neighborhood in Cairo’s Islamic quarter. 21 Personal interview, Mariam, Cairo, 31 January 2017. 22 Personal interview, Mariam, Cairo, 31 January 2017. 23 Personal interview, Mariam, Cairo, 31 January 2017. 24 Personal interview, Ammar, Cairo, 10 November 2016. 25 Link to the press release: Eipr.org. (2011). Maspero: State Incitement of Sectarian Violence and Policy of Extrajudicial Killings | Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights [online]. Available at: https://​eipr.org/​en/​press/​2011/​10/​masp​ero-​state-​inc​item​ent-​ sectar​ian-​viole​nce-​and-​pol​icy-​extraj​udic​ial-​killi​ngs [accessed 30 October 2019]. 26 Personal Interview, Mustafa, Cairo, 12 April 2016. 27 Mina Daniel was a Coptic activist who was active in the 25 January revolution. For more information on Mina Daniel see: Ahram Online. (2012). Egypt’s Mina Danial: The untold story of a revolutionary –​Politics –​Egypt [online]. Available at: http://​engl​ish.ahram.org.eg/​News​Cont​ent/​1/​64/​55044/​Egypt/​Polit​ics-​/​Egy​pts-​ Mina-​Dan​ial-​The-​unt​old-​story-​of-​a-​revolu​tio.aspx [accessed 30 October 2019]. 28 Personal Interview Abdou, Cairo, 25 September 2016. 29 Laura Logan was a reporter who was fiercely attacked in Tahrir square: Adams, R. (2011). CBS News’s Lara Logan suffered ‘brutal’ attack in Tahrir Square. [online] the Guardian. Available at: www.theg​uard​ian.com/​world/​2011/​feb/​16/​lara-​logan-​ cbs-​egypt-​tah​rir [accessed 30 October 2019]. 30 Personal Interview, Kamel, Tanta, 7 November 2016. 31 Personal Interview, Kamel, Tanta, 7 November 2016. 32 Personal Interview, Amany, Cairo, 10 April 2016. 33 Mahienour El-​Masry is a human rights lawyer and a political activist who has been detained several times for her political views. For more on Mahienour see: www.fro​ ntli​nede​fend​ers.org/​en/​prof​i le/​mahien​our-​el-​masry 34 In April 2016, protests broke out against a deal between the Egyptian government and Saudi Arabia ceding control over two islands in Sinai, Tiran and Sanafir. 35 Personal Interview, Dalia, Cairo, 3 November 2016. 36 Personal Interview, Sherif, Cairo, 12 November 2016. 37 Personal Interview, Manar, Cairo, 7 November 2016. 38 Personal Interview, Amany, Cairo, 10 April 2016. 39 Almasryalyoum.com (2015). ‫السيسي‬: «‫عليه يحنو من يجد لم الشعب‬.. ‫| »المسؤولية معانا تتحملوا والزم‬ ‫[ اليوم المصري‬online]. Available at: www.almasr​yaly​oum.com/​news/​deta​ils/​836​602 [Accessed 23 December 2019]. 40 Youtube.com (2014). YouTube [online]. Available at: www.yout​ube.com/​watch?v=​ DNL0​H6rk​QKI [accessed 23 December 2019]. 41 Youtube.com. (2018). YouTube [online]. Available at: www.yout​ube.com/​watch?v=​ AtJb​DSNA​OiA [accessed 23 December 2019].

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Conclusion

The affective register of the revolution This book begins by asking questions about the affective and emotive dynamics of the eighteen days of the 25 January Egyptian revolution to understand the link between affect, emotions and mass protests, as well as the role of these affective dynamics in the political sphere in the aftermath of the revolution. Through an engagement with the literature and empirical data, the book proposes the concept of the affective register of the revolution, which includes three of the most recurrent affective states present in the literature and data. This is not an exhaustive list but is rather an indication of some of the most prominent affective states that are relevant to protestors and the politicisation of actors. These three affective states are: the coming together of diverse actors, the breaking of fear, and the expansion of political imaginary. As expressed by my interlocutors, these feelings were not just a material reality; they impacted personal and collective decisions to act and shaped their views of what was politically possible. As discussed at length in Chapter 2, these affective states were not always evident as clear and concise emotions; rather, they coexisted and impinged on the bodies of the protestors, influencing their political decisions, especially concerning their participation in protests or engagement in the political sphere after the eighteen days. With this concept of an affective register, my aim is not to reduce complex affective and emotive dynamics and collapse them into these three affective states, but to develop a framework that helps us to understand some of the most prominent feelings of protestors. There are, however, many other emotions that are yet to be explored. The concept of the affective register runs through this book in the sense that it has helped me describe and explain some of the affective and emotive dynamics of the eighteen days. It has also enabled me to trace how these dynamics were transfused to the local context, the ways in which they were constitutive elements in the activation of an “oppositional subjectivity” (Ismail, 2013) in the local context, and how they consequently disrupted local politics. Moreover, this concept does not only provide insights into the revolutionary struggle in Egypt, but also sheds light on some of the facets of the counterrevolution insofar as demonstrating why DOI: 10.4324/9781003408741-5

Conclusion  129 the state is invested in attacking this affective register. Countering the coming together of The People has become a state strategy for systematically breaking down fragile alliances, and the restoration of fear is vital to counterrevolutionary efforts as well as the closure of political imaginaries. The affective register of the revolution shows us what is at stake. The notion of a register does not imply an ending; rather, it highlights the affective states that have been lingering and to an extent governing actors’ political actions and guiding the state`s repressive policies. The explanatory power of the concept of the affective register of the revolution lies in its ability to highlight why protestors took to the streets and supported the 25 January revolution, and why this was such a transformative experience for them. People from various socio-​economic and political backgrounds came together against a repressive police state, and this coming together helped them overcome fear and consequently to expand their political imagination. The affective register has also pointed to factors at play in the current state of demobilisation. Breaking up affective solidarity (Juris, 2008) between the main actors that participated in the 25 January revolution, restoring fear, and closing political space and possibility are all part of the state’s effort at erasing the affective register of the revolution, and the re-​modulation of any revolutionary charge is crucial to al-​Sisi´s efforts to build a new nation and to ensure that another revolution is a political impossibility. Building a new nation In September 2019, Mohamed Ali,1 a businessman and contractor who worked for years with the Egyptian Armed Forces on building projects, testified about his experiences in a series of online videos, posted on Facebook. Ali gave detailed accounts of corruption and what he considered to be frivolous spending on large-​scale projects contracted by the Egyptian military at the instruction of President Abdel Fattah al-​Sisi. One of the projects highlighted by Ali in his videos was the building of presidential palaces and the amount of money spent on such projects, while the rest of the country is experiencing economic hardship. Al-​Sisi responded to Ali’s claims,2 confidently confirming that he is indeed building palaces and that he will continue to do so. “I am making a new nation,” al-​Sisi announced during a youth conference. Al-​Sisi´s statement is telling of how he views the function of these mega projects; they are not just meant as investment opportunities, rather he has a vision of a new nation that he is building. Loewert and Steiner (2019, 66) analyse Egypt’s New Administrative Capital (NAC), a mega project that is estimated to cost up to 500 billion US dollars. They highlight the location and size of the presidential palace, positing it as the most important sub-​project of the NAC. They suggest the spatial layout of the new capital shows the “almost absolute power of the head of the state” (Loewert and Steiner 2019, 73), comparing it to European absolutistic cities in the seventeenth century. The size of the new palace is designed to be bigger than many other presidential palaces,

130  Conclusion and is planned to be located in the middle of the new parliament and cabinet buildings, highlighting the centrality of the presidency (Loewert and Steiner, 2019, 72). Loewert and Steiner`s analysis shows how the Armed Forces utilises urban planning politically. During my conversations with Abdou, one of my main interlocutors in Maspero Triangle, he constantly reminded me that “the bulldozer is coming.” Indeed, the bulldozer did come, and it removed his entire neighbourhood. The current regime utilises building and re-​building as a political tool to reshape the nation, resulting in forced relocation for the urban poor. Such restructuring is also about redistributing emotions and erasing affective registers. A state that locks itself away from its people, moving all its vital ministries to a remote new capital that is inaccessible to most citizens, emptying downtown and historic Cairo of its people, and essentially from everything that makes these areas political spaces, is a state concerned with its own survival, one that is keen to ensure the destruction of any factors that might have contributed to the 2011 revolution. “The bulldozer is coming” for many of the urban poor does not only mean the erasure of their homes and landscapes, but also a mode of local politics that has developed over the years in Cairo`s popular areas. The baltagi and the terrorist The affective register of the revolution is under attack. Mona Abaza (2018) writes, “The country is currently experiencing a pervasive moment of erasure on the collective level, going hand in hand with a hard counter-​revolutionary momentum.” This erasure has both interlinked material and affective facets. My research has shown that one way to conceptualise this erasure is to look at how the affective states that constitute an affective register of the revolution have been systematically deconstructed. The coming together of The People becomes the unravelling of the people through a series of events that aimed at severing affective solidarity (Juris, 2008), and fear is restored through moral panic to replace the former breaking of fear, while the expansion of political imaginaries has been reduced to al-​Sisi becoming the “hope of the nation.” Central to this is the Egyptian regime´s endeavour to equate the figure of the protestor with that of the baltagi and/​or terrorist. These efforts are not new or particular to the aftermath of the revolution. According to Amar (2011, 308), Egyptian security forces have been employing such tactics since the 1990s, perhaps even before, to deconstruct and delegitimise protest movements. This affective economy of fear (Ahmed, 2004) that is built around narratives of thuggery and terrorism solidifies as it circulates and interacts with other regimes of power, which feed off the fear of the terrorist figure embodied in Middle Eastern masculinity. Fear becomes instrumental in aligning bodies with or against the nation and justifies the execution of mass killings. The Rabaa massacre has been a defining moment in Egyptian politics and in the trajectory of the 25 January revolution. Helplessness and guilt led many activists to question the value of political participation in the face of such atrocity. In such

Conclusion  131 a repressive environment, hope becomes dangerous. In an attempt to destroy any such latent feelings, the state has even equated hopeful enthusiasm with betrayal and terrorism, as the next section will show. Prisoners of love, prisoners of hope and the ghost of January In June 2019, the Ministry of Interior (MOI) announced in a press release that it had successfully uncovered a terrorist plot called the “Plan for Hope.” According to the MOI, exiled leaders of the Muslim Brotherhood had conspired with secular activists in Egypt to “bring down the state.”3 Several people were arrested in case 930/​2019, most prominently Zeyad Elelaimy,4 a former MP and one of the founders of the Youth Revolution Coalition in 2011 and the Egyptian Social Democratic Party, and Hossam Moanis, a senior member of the Karama Party and the former head of Hamdeen Sabbahi´s presidential campaign. This wave of arrests was dubbed by human rights organisations as “the hope arrests,” or those accused of “hope.” The detainees were charged with helping a terrorist organisation and spreading false news. As events unfolded, it transpired that the “Plan for Hope” referred to a coalition that was in the making between several MPs, journalists and activists to run for the parliamentary elections in 2020.5 The investigation progressed, and the detainees were interrogated about the “Coalition for Hope.” Documents pertaining to the emerging political coalition were confiscated from Moanis´s home and presented in the investigation as evidence of a conspiracy. A smear campaign in the media was carried out against the detainees, citing the MOI press release, and celebrating the ability of the security forces to uncover the conspiracy that was meant to spoil the celebrations of the 30 June anniversary.6 Hossam and Zeyad were both released in 2022. This particular case is interesting for several reasons: the state has effectively criminalised hope and any political coalitions that might contest its authority. In juxtaposition with al-​Sisi´s promise of hope, which was one of the slogans of his presidential campaign in 2018, the state monopolises hope and sanctions the adoption of hope in the political sphere. Terrorism charges are handed to anyone who tries to build any ties with the Muslim Brotherhood and is therefore seen as an enemy of the state, and any possibility for political cooperation between the various groups who worked together during the 25 January revolution has been closed. Hope for a different future or another way of doing politics has essentially been designated an act of terrorism. Central to sanctioning emotions is controlling the public narrative. One of the few news outlets that spoke out against these arrests and presented information deconstructing the press release of the MOI is Mada Masr—​which is among the last remaining independent media outlets in Egypt. Access to Mada Masr’s website has been blocked by the state since May 2017, and it can only be accessed inside Egypt using a VPN or another method to circumvent the block. In November 2019, Mada Masr’s office was raided and three of its journalists were arrested. Chief Editor Lina Attalah, who was briefly detained

132  Conclusion then released, wrote a moving piece a few days after the raid explaining the difficult conditions that her team has been working under and quoting one of her team members describing them as “Prisoners of love” (Attalah, 2019).7 This depiction of herself and her team as “a gang prisoners of love” resonates with Lauren Berlant’s notion of “Cruel Optimism.” Berlant explains: A relation of cruel optimism exists when something you desire is actually an obstacle to your flourishing. It might involve food, or a kind of love; it might be a fantasy of the good life, or a political project. It might rest on something simpler, too, like a new habit that promises to induce in you an improved way of being. These kinds of optimistic relation are not inherently cruel. They become cruel only when the object that draws your attachment actively impedes the aim that brought you to it initially. (Berlant, 2011, 1) Berlant argues that “the desire for the political itself ” can create relations of cruel optimism: Whatever the experience of optimism is in particular, then, the affective structure of an optimistic attachment involves a sustaining inclination to return to the scene of fantasy that enables you to expect that this time, nearness to this thing will help you or a world to become different in just the right way. But, again, optimism is cruel when the object/​scene that ignites a sense of possibility actually makes it impossible to attain the expansive transformation for which a person or a people risks striving; and, doubly, it is cruel insofar as the very pleasures of being inside a relation have become sustaining regardless of the content of the relation, such that a person or a world finds itself bound to a situation of profound threat that is, at the same time, profoundly confirming. (Berlant, 2011, 2) Attalah also talks about an attachment to the 25 January Egyptian revolution. Mada has always been a project of inquiry, of curiosity, one that particularly extends to the darker rooms of power, spaces that we barely see or know. When we started publishing in 2013, many thought of us as a media by and for the children of the 2011 revolution. We are indeed the children (and the makers) of 2011. But we are far more ambitious than that. (Attalah, 2019) The attachment of “the children of 2011,” the “prisoners of love” (Attalah, 2019) to the affective register of the 25 January Egyptian revolution could be described as an attachment of cruel optimism (Berlant, 2011). This is relevant to this book for two reasons: it underscores the attachment of Egyptian activists, including many of my interlocutors, to an affective register of the

Conclusion  133 revolution; a register that still governs the political imagination and political actions of many of the actors who are often implicated in acts that put them at risk and may be rendered incomprehensible by many. Berlant explains, “[b]‌ut optimism doesn’t just manifest an aim to become stupid or simple—​often the risk of attachment taken in its throes manifests an intelligence beyond rational calculation” (Berlant, 2011, 2). The argument I am making here is that the affective register of the revolution dictates not only state policies but also the actions of other political actors. In a way, the political sphere in Egypt is haunted by the Egyptian revolution. Following the 20 September 2019 protests that took place across Egypt,8 Egyptian author Shady Lewis wrote about “The Egyptian Ghosts.”9 He describes protestors as “ghosts,” commenting on the power of “The People” (Al Shaab) who were able to force security forces to withdraw on 28 January 2011, and who could do it again. “We are all waiting for ghosts, no one knows anything about them except that they showed themselves before and that they might show up again, as simple as that,” Lewis writes (2019). “We surrender ourselves to a moment of overwhelming hope, history will repeat itself,” he adds, referring to the possibility of another revolution. As is apparent in both Lewis’s and Attalah’s narratives, and throughout my book, the ghost of January still haunts political players from across the spectrum in Egypt. This influences state policies and has created relations of cruel optimism between political actors and the affective register of the 25 January revolution. Discussions about the failure and success of the revolution, political transformation, or lack thereof, often obscures the ever-​presence of this affective register in the political sphere. Even in its proclaimed defeat, the ghost of January governs the political arena. Notes 1 Saba, J., 2019. “The Egyptian whose videos sparked rare protests” [online]. BBC News. Available at: www.bbc.com/​news/​world-​mid​dle-​east-​49800​212?fbc​lid=​IwAR 1Xomwbi0AVpVAmbeLXQ1fPpymheeDg​CCHF​zOwq​_​UJj​QRH8​z_​Mw​LIxG​Oqw [Accessed 2 January 2020]. 2 Part of al-​Sisi´s speech: Youtube.com. (2019). YouTube. [online] Available at: www. yout​ube.com/​watch?v=​fDxV​XVax​lDk [accessed 2 January 2020]. 3 Shorouknews.com, 2019. ‫الداخلية‬: ‫بالتزامن ومؤسساتها الستهداف الدولة اإلرهابية الجماعة لقيادات مخطط إجهاض‬ ‫ـب االحتفال مع‬30 ‫[ الشروق بوابة – يونيو‬online] Available at: www.shor​oukn​ews.com/​news/​view. aspx?cdate=​25062​019&id=​5d581​426-​eb5c-​459c-​9580-​dbb96​666c​204&fbc​lid=​IwAR 0Ugb2zxI1kqf4aOaDJ8vCaVKhSyD5p​HrZ5​JEKD​eCY7​ZWP7​DENl​rXxv​Wn8 [accessed 2 January 2020]. 4 For more on Zeyad Elaimy see: ‫واالجتماعية االقتصادية للحقوق المصرى كز‬. (2019). ‫باألمل متهمون‬..‫واالجتماعية االقتصادية للحقوق المصرى المركز | ”بروفايل“العليمي زياد‬. [online] Available at: https://​ecesr.org/​?p=​775​941&fbc​lid=​IwA​R2Jf​Q6GT​prwG​TPK-​0UPljJlxzobspat​ RCWU​wGnW​zFWD​bPf8​SFVT​B22N​HnE [accessed 2 January 2020]. 5 Mamdouh, R., 2019. “Prosecution takes up political line in interrogation of several ‘Coalition for Hope’ defendants, hands down 15-​day detention orders.” [online]

134  Conclusion Mada Masr. Available at: https://​madam​asr.com/​en/​2019/​06/​27/​news/​u/​pros​ecut​ion-​ takes-​up-​politi​cal-​line-​in-​interr​ogat​ion-​of-​seve​ral-​coalit​ion-​for-​hope-​def​enda​nts-​ hands-​down-​15-​day-​detent​ion-​ord​ers/​ [accessed 2 January 2020]. 6 ‫مصراوي‬.‫كوم‬. 2020). ‫ احتفاالت إلفساد اإلرهابية ”األمل خطة“ الداخلية أحبطت كيف‬30 ‫يونيو؟‬. [online] Available at: shorturl.at/​nrY47 7 Attalah, L., 2019. “A few things you might like to know about us.” [online] Mada Masr. Available at: https://​madam​asr.com/​en/​2019/​11/​28/​opin​ion/​u/​286​950/​ [accessed 2 January 2020]. 8 Yee, V. and Rashwan, N., 2019. “Egypt’s Harsh Crackdown Quashes Protest Movement.” [online] New York Times. Available at: www.nyti​mes.com/​2019/​10/​04/​ world/​mid​dlee​ast/​egypt-​prot​est-​sisi-​arre​sts.html [accessed 2 January 2020]. 9 Lewis, S., 2019. ‫المصرية األشباح‬. [online] almodon. Available at: www.almo​don.com/​ opin​ion/​2019/​9/​23/​%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%A3%D8%B4%D8%A8%D8%A7%D8 %AD- %D8%A7%D9%84%D9%85%D8%B5%D8%B1%D9%8A%D8%A9 [accessed 2 January 2020].

Bibliography Abaza, M., 2018. Mona Abaza: Memory Expurgation. Media Theory. URL http://​med​ iath​eory​jour​nal.org/​mona-​abaza-​mem​ory-​expu​rgat​ion/​ (accessed 22 December 2019). Abaza, M., 2012. The War of the Walls: The Ongoing Struggle for Cairo’s City Center (March 11, 2012) [WWW Document]. URL http://​glo​bald​ialo​gue.isa-​sociol​ogy.org/​ wall​ing-​the-​city-​the-​ongo​ing-​strug​gle-​for-​cairo%E2%80%99s-​cen​ter/​ (accessed 22 December 2019). Ahmed, S., 2004. The cultural politics of emotion. Routledge, New York. Amar, P., 2011. “Middle East Masculinity Studies: Discourses of ‘Men in Crisis,’ ” Industries of Gender in Revolution. J. Middle East Womens Stud. 7, 36–​70. Attalah, L., 2019. “A few things you might like to know about us [WWW Document].” Mada Masr. URL https://​madam​asr.com/​en/​2019/​11/​28/​opin​ion/​u/​286​950/​ (accessed 28 January 2020). Ayata, B., Harders, C., 2019. “Midān Moments,” in: Slaby, J., von Scheve, C. (Eds.), Affective Societies: Key Concepts. Routledge. https://​doi.org/​10.4324/​978135​1039​260 Berlant, L.G., 2011. Cruel optimism. Duke University Press, Durham. Ismail, S., 2006. Political Life in Cairo’s New Quarters. Ismail, S., 2012. “The Egyptian Revolution against the Police.” Soc. Res. 79, 435–​462. Ismail, S., 2009. “Youth, Gender and the State in Cairo: Marginalized Masculinities and Contested Spaces,” in: Khalaf, Samir, Khalaf, Roseanne (Eds.), Arab Society and Culture: An Essential Reader. Saqi Books, London. Ismail, S., 2013. “Urban Subalterns in the Arab Revolutions: Cairo and Damascus in Comparative Perspective.” Comp. Stud. Soc. Hist. 55, 865–​894. https://​doi.org/​ 10.1017/​S00104​1751​3000​443 Juris, J.S., 2008. “Performing politics: Image, embodiment, and affective solidarity during anti-​corporate globalization protests.” Ethnography 9, 61–​97. https://​doi.org/​ 10.1177/​14661​3810​8088​949 Lewis, S., 2014, September 24. ‫األشباح المصرية‬. almodon. www.almodon.com//opinion /2019/9/23/‫المصرية‬-‫األشباح‬ Loewert, P., Steiner, C., 2019. “The New Administrative Capital in Egypt: The Political Economy of the Production of Urban Spaces in Cairo.” Middle East –​Top. Argum. 12, 66–​75. https://​doi.org/​10.17192/​meta.2019.12.7933

Index

Note: Endnotes are indicated by the page number followed by “n” and the note number e.g., 123n9 refers to note 9 on page 123. #new_​republic narrative 1 Abaza, Mona 41 affective dispositions 8, 10; affect and space, and affective attachments 13–​14; affective cycles 11, 37, 40; affective theory and methodologies 10, 24–​26, 128–​29; breaking of fear 42, 49–​52, 93; collectivism, and affective solidarity 16–​17, 93–​94; emotional dynamics and emotive chaos 6–​7, 8–​11, 24; memory, and impact on decision making 39; political impulses, and affective freedom 39–​40; and political mobilisations 12, 36; power, and affective states 15–​17, 36, 91–​92, 122; social reproduction and social change 12; spatial confinement, affect of 80–​81; subjectivity and human interiority 19; threats and fears, creation of 107–​09 affective theory and methodologies 24–​31; data collection and analysis 26–​31; and embodied-​affective data 24–​25; feelings’ analysis 26; focus groups 27; narrative interviews, and storytelling 26, 28–​30; participator experiences, and narrative analysis 28–​30; situated affective encounters 27 Ahmed, Sara 106, 108; affective politics of fear 93, 108–​09, 130 Al Hataba neighbourhood 81–​82 Al Waraq Island 83; Al Waraq Island Family Council 83 al-​Sisi, Abdel Fattah (President): 25 January Revolution (2011), reaction

to 90; Asmarat (‘Long Live Egypt’) housing project 77–​78; public emotional displays 120–​22; re-​election campaign (second term) 2; ‘war on terror’ declaration, and justification of 107–​10 Amar, Paul 106–​07 Anderson, Ben 92 Andrews, Molly 30 Arendt, Hannah 52–​53; natality, concept of 53–​54 Asmarat (‘Long Live Egypt’) housing project 77–​81; Informal Settlements Development Fund, management of 79–​80; Maspero Triangle neighbourhood, and relocation to 77–​81; spatial confinement, affect of 80–​81 Attalah, Lina 131–​32 baltagi 2, 8; and affective economy of fear 130–​31; role of and narratives relating to 3, 16, 22, 93–​94, 102–​04; state view of 72, 106; urban poor, and references to 67, 68–​69 ‘Battle of the Camel’ 72, 120 Bayat, Asef 14, 60 Berlant, Lauren 132, 133 Bread Riots (1977) 61 Brennan, Teresa 9, 44 Bulaq Abu al-​Ila neighbourhood 2, 59; demolition of 61; history of 63; ishash al-​Turguman 61–​62; local politics, post-​revolution 59; popular committee 26, 69; removal and relocation of families from 61–​62; sectarian division,

136 Index and state incitement of 104–​05; Tahrir Square occupation, role in 5, 69–​71 Butler, Judith 12–​13, 54–​55 Cairo 2050 63, 64 collective mobilisation: collective action theory 9; contagion, and concept of 46–​47; emotional dynamics, and emotional turn 6–​7, 9, 48; impulse to act 37–​41; Interaction Ritual Theory, and affective solidarity 46–​49; political motivations for, and political naïveté 12, 52–​54; popular forces and oppositional subjectivity 19–​21, 72–​73; rational-​actor paradigm 9, 11, 36; transformative potential of 19; transmission of affect, and productive power of 44–​45 Coptic Christians: Al Kedeseen Church attack 95–​96, 123n9; Coptic-​Muslim relations 96–​97; post-​revolutionary period, and treatment of 94–​97; protest and mobilising factors 95–​96, 98–​99, 104–​05; sectarian division, and state incitement of 98–​101, 104–​05; state narrative relating to 94–​95 Daniel, Mina 104–​05, 124n27 Deleuze, G. 10 Elelaimy, Zeyad 131 gender and gender relations 17–​18, 23; and feminist standpoint theory 23–​24; feminist activism 117–​19; local activism, and women’s role in 84–​85, 101–​02; male rationality and female irrationality 17; masculinity in the Middle East, and views of 17–​18, 106–​07; norms, and disruption to 18, 23; patriarchal society, and gender order 121; politics and gender 18, 85; post-​revolutionary period, and attacks on women’s rights 101–​02 Ghannam, Farha 62, 77, 78–​79 Gould, Deborah 8–​9, 10–​11, 91; feelings’ analysis, and framework for 27–​28 Harders, Cilja 14 Hemmings, Clare 8, 11 Informal Settlements Development Fund 64–​65, 75; Asmarat (‘Long Live

Egypt’) housing project, management of 79–​80 Iskandar, Laila 75 Islamist groups: Coptic-​Muslim relations 96–​97; Muslim Brotherhood, and state narratives relating to 52, 108, 111, 115–​17; role of, and terrorist narratives 16–​17, 102–​04; state narrative relating to 96–​97, 106; ‘war on terror,’ and target of 107–​08, 109–​10 Ismail, Salwa 4–​5, 19–​20, 67–​68, 71–​72, 84 Khalifa, Mohamed 81–​82 Le Bon, Gustav 9, 45 Lewis, Shady 133 Logan, Lara 107 Mada Masr 131–​32 Malmström, Maria Frederika 113 Maspero Massacre (October 2011) 94–​100; 858 archive 95, 123n8; demographic of protagonists 96; sectarian division, and state incitement of 98–​101; state narrative, and media reporting 94, 112; urban poor, and role in 103–​05 Maspero Triangle neighbourhood 2, 5, 62; affective attachments of inhabitants 14–​15; Asmarat, and move to 77–​81; Cairo 2050, impact on 64; Deweqa rock collapse 64; earthquake, and damage to housing 63; history of 63–​66; local politics, post-​revolution 59; Maspero Development Project 74–​77; Maspero Massacre (October 2011) 94–​96, 98–​101, 112; Maspero Youth Alliance, 26, 62, 65, 74–​75, 82–​83, 84, 104; ‘no-​maintenance plan’ 63–​64, 71, 74; police conflict and burning of police stations 49–​50, 67, 70–​71, 106; relocation policies, and evictions, 60, 62–​63, 66–​67, 75–​77, 78; removal of 23, 59, 62, 130; safety issues and evacuations 64–​65; and social media messaging 82; Tahrir Square occupation, role in 2, 69–​70, 73, 105–​06; women and youth alliance 83–​85; youth, and state targeting of 67–​68 Massumi, Brian 10, 107–​08 ‘Midan Moments’ 3, 7, 41, 93

Index  137 Moanis, Hossam 131 Morsi, Mohamed (President) 111 Mubarak, Hosni (President): ‘Al Khitab El ‘Atefy’ presidential speech by 120–​21; ousting of 22, 52, 92, 98, 120–​21; protests against the regime of 3, 22; regime of 73; support for 72 Navaro-​Yashin, Yael 13–​14, 60, 80 neoliberalism 60–​61; ‘neoliberal cities,’ development of 60; urban poor, impact on 60–​61 New Administrative Capital project 129–​30 Pearlman, Wendy 6–​7 ‘Plan of Hope’ plot (2019) 131 Police Day 49–​50; al-​Sisi, Abdel Fattah (President), speech made by 121–​22; anti-​police protests 49–​50 politics and political participation 14; colonial political projects 16; local politics, and the urban poor 5–​6, 14, 61; mobilisation and demobilisation 90; post-​revolutionary period 30; urban restructuring, and political consequences of 76–​77, 78–​79; women, and political activism 84–​85, 101–​02 popular communities: ‘battles’ in 5; formation of 4; local grievances and national revolutionary politics 5; political initiatives formed from 4; relocation policies 61–​63; street and local politics and political practices 14, 61; urban restructuring, and impact on 15, 64, 130 post-​revolutionary period 1; activism and deactivism 119–​20; affective register, and government attack on 91–​93; and collective moment of erasure 15, 20, 22, 41, 81–​83, 130; Coptic Christians, and treatment of 94–​97; counter-​ revolutionary movement 22–​23; gender and gender relations 18; government response to 90; media, and state-​ controlled narratives 94–​95; military authority 92; polarisation of citizens, and state attempts at 109–​11; and political participation 30; sectarian division, and state incitement of 98–​101; state narrative relating to

30–​31, 93–​96; women and women’s rights, attacks on 101–​02 protest and mobilising factors: and anti-​protest laws 123n3; impulse to act, and prior affective processes 37–​41; Tamarod campaign 93–​94, 117, 123n5 public square protests: affect and space, and affective attachments 12–​14; affective register of 41–​42; transmission of affect 44–​45 Rabaa massacre 16, 28, 52, 90, 108; aim and impact of 111; arrests and deaths of protestors 111–​13; dispersal pan 112, 113; lethal force, use of 112–​13; Muslim Brotherhood, and state narratives relating to 111, 115–​17; participator experiences 114–​15; state narrative relating to 111 Sabea, Hanan 7 Schielke, Samuli 49 Sedgwick, Eve 11 Sholkamy, Hania 43 Smith, Linda Tuhiwai 1, 26 social movement theory: and affective dispositions 12; impulse to act 37–​41; and transmission of affect 45–​46 Stoler, Ann 16, 91 Tahrir Monologues 97–​98 Tahrir Square occupation (2011) 3, 5, 70, 84–​85; affective and emotional dynamics of 22–​23; affective register of 42, 91–​93, 128, 132–​33; anti-​ police protests 49–​50; ‘Battle of the Camel’ 72, 120; Bulaq Abu al-​Ila neighbourhood, role in 5, 69–​71; collectivism and co-​existence 43–​44, 93–​94; critical imaginary, and potential of 52–​53; impulse to act, and prior affective processes 40–​41; location and space, and disruption of 12–​13; Maspero Triangle neighbourhood, role in 2, 69–​70, 73, 105–​06; participator experiences 22, 37–​38, 42, 43, 44–​45, 47–​48, 50–​51, 54; police conflict and burning of police stations 49–​50, 70–​71, 106; street politics and political practices 5–​6, 14, 61; transmission of affect, and productive power of 44–​45 Thrift, Nigel 15, 76 Tomkins, Silvan 11, 38

138 Index urban poor: baltagi, and references to 22, 67, 68–​69, 72, 102–​04; Cairo 2050, impact on 64; community groups, and support for 82–​83; discipline, and policing of 62–​63; gender identity and relations 17, 18; ‘neoliberal cities,’ and impact on 60–​61; oppositional subjectivities, and political insights

21–​22; police, and conflict with 61, 70–​71, 73; politics and political participation 14, 61; revolutionary role of 4–​5, 6; the streets and outdoor spaces, appropriation of 60–​61; urban restructuring, impact on and political consequences of 76–​77, 78–​79; youth, and state targeting of 67–​68