This post is false.
What was so disturbing for Europe and maybe ridiculous at a distance for the States in the 2011 Arab Upheavals was the knee-jerk reflex of solidarity, almost at play in Newtonian fashion, amassing million+ fists swung at rifles shot . Bouazizi’s self-immolation showed of a symbol reenacted at a breathless distance from counterparts of romantic acts of individual relevance. It was the time, it was the place, it was everybody’s flesh the Tunisian Police HQ watched crackle. Egypt was a spectacle for a France of Bastille or for a Russia of Bolsheviks. For two weeks, no rest, a city came to a willful halt, first shouted, then fought its ground. This is what we saw on TV and that is what we cheered for as they held ground in Tahrir and lamented for as they charged towards a pro-Mubarek car speeding through them like it’s the harvest season. However, again, romanticizing is forgetting. Given the massive dimensions of pure human elements in the event, no ideology, no political tarnishing, It’s dangerously close to a misguided empathy. Which is all and well at a distance, but you are entitled to remember this: This almost Hollywood alienation of isolated sympathy is bottled up somewhere else as fictitious. The unrelenting, unforgiving, bleeds-when-shot reality is 1 MILLION out of 80 MILLION people of a 1 MILLION kmsq land have set a momentum in 48 hours and have blown out to a single voice in a week. The story is and is not about the million; In the crux of the solidarity is not the number, but that guy who microrevolts, deaf and blind to what goes on outside. Solidarity is a timepoint when vectors of more than one parallel. Revolution is when he opens his eyes up from the cry within and he had already stormed the Bastille. Revolution then becomes tidal. Not a million as one external self, but a natural upbringing of parts into breaking. The affairs of a revolutionary is not dependent of the revolution. Nor the revolution is dependent of the the affairs of a bunch of them. It’s surreal to imagine an inertia, in falling societies from DeGaulles into self-immolation. The gap to fill is the mystical one i left: Then who talks to whom? Who ties the internal cosmos of one to a final catharsis of a million?
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