Living next to the president has its ups and downs, reports Alaa Abdel-Ghani I live on the same street as President Mubarak. Not to brag, especially during these times of unrest, when such proximity might not be in my best interests. Whenever the topic is raised, the general sentiment shared by family, relatives, neighbours and friends is that the street could be the safest in Egypt but could also be the most dangerous -- depending. The lavish palace in Heliopolis, whose occupant is in the eye of the world's storm, is around 600 metres from where I live. Standing in between is Heliopolis Sporting Club, Omar Ibn Abdel-Aziz Mosque, three quaint little villas and a five-storey apartment building. My parents and I were the building's first occupants. We moved into our flat on Marghani Street in 1975. Mubarak, who had just been appointed vice president, had moved into the presidential palace down the street. When he became president in 1981, the palace became his permanent address. One of Mubarak's first decisions as the new president was to tear down a gas station that had stood on the corner, thus expanding the presidential grounds and removing what was deemed a security threat. Up until the 25 January protests that rocked the country, it was surprisingly easy to venture close to the palace. You could drive in front of it, hop on the Marghani tram that passes by it and even walk next to it, though the unwritten rule was that you should move briskly if on foot and not stare too long at the palace for fear of arousing the suspicions of its soldier guardians. The same leeway was evidenced on the either side of the street where traffic going the other way passed by the equally imposing presidential rest house. Today, though, all that has changed. The palace has battened down. The street is blocked to all vehicles, pedestrians, trams and, daresay, a wayward fly. Tanks are positioned in front of the nearby sports club's main entrance and beyond, but they're not your everyday tanks, not the kind we've become accustomed to seeing ever since the army moved into the country's cities and towns. These are the Republican Guard's extra large models, bigger, higher and meaner. Add to this arsenal armoured vehicles, barbed wire and star-fish shaped metal barriers and you've got fortress impregnable. The extra security was prompted not just by the demonstrations but more to the point by a disturbing incident on Marghani Street 28 January, the bloodiest day of the clashes. A few hundred demonstrators had gathered at Roxy Square, as similar protesters did around the country after Friday prayers. Several dozen had managed to break through a flimsy police cordon and had begun marching towards the palace. They did not get far after two police trucks swooped down on them at high speed, in the same manner as the mystery white van which ploughed through an unsuspecting crowd and which was captured on a video which went viral. Luckily, in Roxy no one was run down. That day, the police abandoned all of Egypt, an act of high treason as decried by the people. The jury is still out on the reasons behind the vanishing act, but whatever the case, the security vacuum needed to be filled. The streets had become dangerous. Looters, thugs and thousands of inmates, some on death row, who had either escaped or had intentionally been freed by the police -- some armed after getting their hands on police weaponry taken from police stations which had been gutted by demonstrators -- were on the loose. For all their valour, the army was not equipped nor is it their job to run after common criminals. The presidential avenue became frighteningly silent. Curfews have a way of doing that. So out came the ad-hoc vigilantes that sprang up to protect public and private property. It started on Saturday when TV first reported news of looting. Neighbourhood doormen immediately called for volunteer reinforcements. The word spread and on our street around 50 police stand-ins heeded the call to duty. They ranged in age from 20-25 but some were as young as 14. They came armed with sticks and kitchen knives; a few brought their pet dogs. They were quickly deputised and blessed by residents. They set up makeshift roadblocks using the traffic cones and railings left behind by the retreating police. Sentry duty was from dusk to dawn. They rested on the first floor of a high-rise near us empty of tenants. They warmed themselves in front of bonfires in the night cold that dropped below 10C. They warmed to the idea of becoming sergeants and lieutenants, asking for identification from anyone trying to enter the side streets by car or on foot. To while away the time they played street football. Their yells when someone scored gave us the chills for it often sounded like they were in trouble. Our residents were pasted to the TV which would from time to time provide useful bits of information which in turn would be relayed to the teens and doormen below. "Bahr, be careful," residents would warn from their windows or by mobile. "Ambulances have been hijacked. Don't let them in." "Moussa, watch out if you see policemen. Their uniforms were stolen. They're not really police." On the Sunday before last, an urgent BBC Arabic TV news item flashed on the bottom of the screen: 'Shots heard near presidential palace'. It wasn't gun fire. A car had wanted to cross our fortifications. The driver was being grilled by our overly zealous citizen guardians as to whether he was friend or foe. His replies apparently did not satisfy the investigators who set alight a carton of gas-filled bottles near the car. The stupendous bang, bang, bang of the molotovs sounded like apocalypse now. It later turned out the car belonged to the presidential staff. After the initial shock of the police void, the jitters started to subside. The dangers posed by bandits had been nullified by the steadfastness displayed by the recruits. We would, though, go on heightened alert when hearing protesters on TV warning they would march to the presidential palace to call on the president to step down, and if that didn't work, at least to raid the Presidential Refrigerator and empty it of its contents. The banks were closed, money was scant and the demonstrators were getting hungry. When the Internet reappeared last week Wednesday, our youth brigade decided it was time to catch up on Facebook and so abandoned their posts. They have now dwindled to seven or eight but for the exploits of them all, we will undoubtedly be eternally grateful. Life as we used to know it returned this week. On our street, a CIB bank branch, Costa Coffee and Heliopolis Club have all reopened but Misr gas station remains closed, perhaps for fear of being torched. But huge traffic jams have been created after the rerouting of traffic around the palace. Cars must now pack into Al-Ahram Street, negotiating around newly set up roadblocks and checkpoints. Already, thanks as much to its vastness as the relative wealth of its residents, Heliopolis has the most cars of anywhere in Egypt. The occasional car sporting an Egyptian red, white and black flag drives by with its occupants chanting 'Ya Mubarak'. Heliopolis is predominantly pro- president, thanks to the patronage the affluent in the neighbourhood have enjoyed under his leadership. The Heliopolis pro-Mubarak camp also includes a sizeable Christian presence who it is said feel threatened by an Islamic government takeover after Mubarak departs in chaotic fashion. There are no answers to who will be the next resident of our White House, our 10 Downing Street, our Elysee Palace. Whoever it is, we will be sure to watch, with a sigh of relief, as the moving vans haul away his predecessor's 30 years of momentos.
