My Truth I sit on the edge of the couch, watching the news of the Arab Spring filing in, images of chaos and struggle clouding up countries that were once great civilizations. The fight in their eyes is oddly familiar to me; they bring me back to the streets of Cairo, where a simple family vacation made us bear witness to the start of the January revolution. “Welcome to Cairo!” Our taxi driver said, a warm smile on his face. My mom smiled back, the relief etching itself into the lines around her eyes. Outside of the airport, in the cacophony of hagglers and honking cars, no taxis had been in sight. Until a man came up to us and introduced himself as Madu, a taxi driver. He had kind eyes and an inoffensive posture - I instantly liked him. His car smelled of worn leather, people, and a touch of smoke, but my face was instantly glued to the window. I took in the vast expanse of Cairo, the sights, the smells, and the colours of a famed city in textbooks. It was beautiful, but I
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couldn’t help but notice the aura of poverty and hopelessness that settled into the streets. My dad, in the front seat of the taxi, couldn’t help but ask, his voice revealing his curiosity. “Is Cairo always like this?” He didn’t mean any harm. But we could all feel it. The lack of tourists and the chaos in the airport. It was a feeling, something we couldn’t quite place a finger on. Madu shook his head. He met our eyes in the rearview mirror, a grim look set in his features. “No, not always. It’s the revolution,” he explained. “Revolution?” The shock was clear in our voices. The news of a revolution had not yet carried over amid our packing and preparing for our twenty-day trip through Africa and the Middle East. “The demonstrations started a few days ago,” Madu said. “Now there are marches, burnings, strikes every day. People are starving under the presidency
