Saving history

A little over a year ago, I was with my brother on a 40-day trip around the world. And near the end of that trip, we found ourselves in Cairo, Egypt, in the middle of Tahrir Square.

I didn't, and don't, know much about Egyptian politics. But we were there in the aftermath of their revolution, after their first democratic election ever had been held, and the results had come back so close, there had to be a recount.

For the entire week we were there, it was apparent that people were tense. This was a big deal, and everyone was talking about it. When the recount came in, would the winner be a representative of the tyrannical regime they had just ousted, or a people's candidate with dangerous political ties?

We listened to these discussions the whole time we were there. And on the day we were flying out, we accidentally found ourselves back in Tahrir Square, packed with thousands upon thousands of people.

We had come several times before. And each time, we were patted down by the volunteer civilian security force surrounding the premises. They asked for our IDs, they checked our pockets, and then they saw we were Americans and welcomed us in.

It was intimidating. We were clearly out of place. Effigies were hanging from light posts, with nooses around their necks. There was a lot of noise. Once, we emerged from the wrong subway entrance, and came up behind a demonstrator speaking loudly to the crowd. The people around us were so pressed together, it took us a half-hour to move a few feet. It was night, and the square was full of music and speeches and people cheering and jeering and squeezing up against each other.

So this time was shocking. Here we were in the middle of the square, and everyone was completely silent. This square full of people that had probably been making noise non-stop since the previous November, had now gone completely still, as radios at different points in the crowd read off numbers and votes.

Of course, I couldn't understand what was being said. And so I waited in silence too, for over an hour, hoping to see how this would all resolve.

The voice kept droning. But then I thought that perhaps someone in the crowd had stirred. And suddenly, everything around me exploded.

People were laughing, crying, falling on the ground praying. Music burst forth, dancing, people with flags spinning in circles, tossing each other into the air.

It was the most intense outpouring of emotion I had ever seen. It was impossible not to get caught up in it.

And I just so happened to have caught that moment on video.

The moment when these people went from expectation to realization, from never having experienced a democratic election in their lives, to having witnessed and been a part of a change in their country's history. This was a turning point, and I saw the switch of history get flipped before my eyes.

And a minute into it, my phone came up and said "unable to save video". I had captured one of the most intense moments of my life, and just like that, it was gone.

It occurred to me then, and later, that journalists were unseen during this event. But the real history was being recorded on hundreds of camera phones and pocket devices. The real history was recorded from the point of view of the people who were in it, who were living it.

It used to be that history was the domain of the kings, the emperors, the business leaders, dictators, and politicians. But no more. Now we can see history from the point of view of the people to whom it mattered most.

But something else occurred to me. A year later, how many of these recordings would still exist? How many phones would have broken, or been lost, or been upgraded without transferring these historic photos? How many people would simply not know how to preserve their photos or videos?

We are recording a better history than we've ever had before. But we're losing it almost as fast.

I realized that the creators of these technologies, like my phone, or the phones of the people around me, had never prioritized making sure that these kinds of historic records would last. So I could record a monumental video, and my iPhone could trash it with nothing more than a warning message. And these people could take historic photos, and simply lose them in a botched upgrade, or a dead battery.

And I realized that I needed to change this. That our history is worth saving. That the individual vantage points of each of these people, and everyone else currently walking this earth at this moment, is a vast and unimaginably rich source of insight. That future generations will weep at the loss currently being caused by our carelessness.

We're recording a better history than we've ever had before. And it's now my aim to make sure that history lasts.