Gen Z & the Revolution| The children of open wounds

The moment I started to write this article, excitement rushed through me before I could stop it. It felt instinctive, physical—like something long buried had finally been given permission to surface. Then I paused, took a breath, and asked myself a question I had somehow avoided my entire life: what does the Egyptian revolution actually mean to me?

I realized I had always carried fragments—thoughts, sensations, images—but never gave myself the space to organize them into a feeling, let alone an opinion. Writing this feels like an attempt to carve my way through that emotional chaos, a deeply personal effort to push through its wreckage, and maybe, along the way, offer a clearer vision of what the aftermath truly looked like for a politically active Gen Z who grew up in its shadow.

My parents have been politically active for as long as I can remember. Politics was never something that entered our house with the revolution; it was always there, quietly, in conversations, silences, and moods. As a child, I didn’t understand what Egypt was before 2011. I didn’t know names, systems, or ideologies. All I knew was that something was deeply wrong, and that wrongness weighed heavily on my parents, especially my father.

Growing up with politically active parents was confusing. I could feel their passion, their urgency, their exhaustion, but I didn’t know what it was directed toward. There was a cause, clearly, but it felt abstract and distant—like a word I could hear but not understand.

Before the revolution, I remember kids at school talking about their parents’ political views. Politics was everywhere then, spilling from homes and television screens into classrooms, carried unconsciously by children who didn’t fully understand it but repeated it anyway. In my class, there were kids whose parents were in the Brotherhood and kids whose parents supported the regime. It felt like only those two camps existed, because they were the only ones ever shown in the media.

They didn’t understand what was being said, but they memorized keywords, names, phrases—things that made them sound confident when they spoke. When it was my turn to explain what my parents believed, I froze. How could a four-year-old explain socialism when she didn’t even understand it herself?

I felt alienated in a way I didn’t have the language to describe. Everyone seemed to belong somewhere, to recognize each other through their parents’ positions, and I was just…there. Watching. Silent.

Then the revolution came.

Suddenly, everyone was in the streets. I don’t remember how it started, only that it did—and that the world suddenly felt louder, brighter, more alive. My father was genuinely happy, which was rare then. My mother worked constantly, and I was told her job as an Al Jazeera correspondent put her in danger—but I didn’t care. The truth is, those were the best days we ever lived as a family.

The revolution brought us together in ways I didn’t understand then but felt deeply. My sister and I chanted at home, made signs with our small hands. My father carried me on his shoulders in the streets, proud, excited, showing me off as if I were part of something sacred. My mother was present in every way she could be—holding us together while fear lived inside her, quietly.

I didn’t understand what was happening, and I didn’t want to. I was happy. I was safe. That was enough.

And it didn’t last long.

Suddenly, we were defeated. I didn’t know what the word meant—only that it changed everything. My father fell into deep depression. He stopped carrying me on his shoulders. We were no longer in the streets. We barely spoke. Silence became a permanent, heavy guest in our home.

My mother lived in constant tension, trying to hide it from us—and somehow that made everything worse. I remember deciding, at that age, not to burden them. They already had enough on their plate, even if I didn’t know what that “enough” was.

I don’t blame them. Now I understand that defeat was one of the darkest moments in Egypt’s modern history. But then, I was just a child.

Everywhere else, people said we had “won.” At home, it was essential—almost urgent—to understand that we had lost. I didn’t understand either version. So I memorized words. Repeated them. Learned what to say to avoid confrontation, without comprehension.

After that, school became a nightmare. Socialists—who no one noticed before the revolution—suddenly became visible and hated. Propaganda portrayed them as irrational, dangerous, delusional. I still didn’t know what socialism meant. All I knew was that people like my father had danced and chanted in the streets, and the government didn’t like that. Somehow, that alone justified everything that followed.

At school, kids talked endlessly about El-Sisi, Morsi, and ElBaradei. Every household chose a side—except ours. I remember running to my mother one day and asking, “Are we with Morsi or with Sisi?” She answered calmly, “Neither.” That confused me more than anything else.

Every child became a mirror of their parents’ fears and beliefs, absorbing fragments from screens and arguments and turning them into absolute truths. My only understanding came from the sadness settled in my parents’ eyes.

Then Rabaa happened. Hundreds were killed. After that, all voices disappeared. Silence was no longer a choice—it was imposed.

My father stopped working. Continuing in journalism meant giving up on your principles—or at the very least staying silent in the face of injustice. He refused. I watched the heartbreak grow inside him, even if I didn’t know its source.

All I truly knew was that nothing would ever return to how it was—and that the revolution had completely torn my family apart, like it did with many others.

The impact of defeat

For his personal and psychological safety, my father had to leave Egypt. I was eight. People asked why. Was it work? Opportunity? A better life?

I wish I could go back and scream, “Because of oppression and injustice.” But at eight, I didn’t even know those words existed.

The moment he left, a hatred for the country was born inside me. I knew how much he loved Egypt and how gentle and sincere he was. Watching him leave because his heart was too pure and his voice too loud shattered something inside me.

School became harsher. Children didn’t understand the quiet terror of not knowing your family’s future. They didn’t understand the pain that returned every time someone asked if I would leave too, like my father. Innocent questions became unbearable when I had no answers.

Everything blurred. I avoided politics entirely. I avoided talking about my father until I was fifteen.

That’s when I realized injustice extends far beyond politics. I realized I was different—socially, intellectually, fundamentally. I realized I was a free-spirited woman whose identity itself was punished. That realization pushed me to seek understanding.

They never believe us until we are completely broken

Between fifteen and sixteen, I avoided the revolution itself, but I began to understand corruption—not just in Egypt, but everywhere. It weighed heavily on my soul, but it ignited something inside me. A refusal to remain still. That’s when it became clear: my parents weren’t just fighting politically. They were fighting for human dignity. For justice. Their loss wasn’t political—it was a defeat of humanity itself.

From sixteen to eighteen, I spoke to my parents more openly and understood the values they defended. I realized I stood exactly where they stood.

Visiting my father in Canada reopened wounds I thought had healed. Seeing his raw, unresolved pain made everything real again. I spoke cautiously about the revolution there, watching people fail to grasp how deeply corruption and injustice still eat away at the “land of the pyramids.”

At the same time, Palestine lived in my heart and my voice—even before the genocide in Gaza. Watching the world recognize injustice only when the oppressed pay with their lives made my blood boil. They never believe us until we are completely broken.

Now I am nineteen. When someone mentions the revolution, I raise my head in pride. I finally understand the pain that sparked it. I am proud of my parents for being part of it.

When I look at Egyptians today, I see frustration, anger, hunger, but most of all: despair. I realize the revolution didn’t give false hope only to my parents—but to everyone.

If January 2011—or anything even remotely like it—happens again, I will be among the first in the streets. Not only for my parents, or my people—but because I owe it to myself, to my future—if a future is still possible in this country.