All I smell is sweat and spray-paint. All I see are fists. I’m thinking of last year, watching protesters pull a riot cop out of Tahrir Square into an alley and telling Bucky, “That guy is dead.” Now I’m thinking, “I’m that guy.” That night, I was planning on going to my cousin’s wedding. I spent the last five days of Ramadan with my family in Alexandria, Egypt’s second largest city, then went to my aunt’s in Cairo. At 4pm, near El-Hegaz Square, a Muslim Brotherhood-organized protest marches past her balcony.
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