"What do you think?" I've been asked, "What do you think about the killing and genocide happening to the Muslim Brotherhood?" I've been asked, "What do you think of the terrorists who are trying to take over?" But not once have I been asked, "How do you feel?" No once has someone asked me if I was sad or broken or dying inside with every death — not the deaths of terrorists or murderers — but the deaths of Egyptians, of humans, of sisters and brothers, of a mother or a father, of a daughter or a son, of a friend.

Not one person has considered that I may be more invested in the situation beyond political opinions. Many people assume that if I do not share his or her personal opinion, then I’m a terrorist or a murderer instead of a person with a heart.

People have asked me about my country and which of the groups I support, the Muslim Brotherhood or the military, without considering that the situation does not solely consist of different camps and stances but rather individuals with names — Ahmed, Mohamed, Michael, Sarah, Fatma, Christine, Ibrahim, Khaled, Soumaia. Ibrahim, a high school senior, was hit with a tear-gas bomb and nearly died. Soumaia’s husband was shot in the head; she mourns his loss every single second. Mohamed was an enlisted military officer; he was just waiting for his mandatory nine months to pass by so that he could go back to his family, but his family will never see him again. They lost him. We lost him. In a sense, I lost him too.

They call it “Egypt” and they ask me about it with a slight smile or a grimace on their faces. I smile back, I laugh, I appreciate the curiosity, but inside I’m in pain. My home is in pain. The peace and love I felt is lost. A piece of me dies every day with my Egypt, my Masr. A piece of me dies with every death. And I miss them. I do not know them but I miss them.

I went home. It changed. The people don’t smile on the street. The music at night isn’t loud anymore. The city that never sleeps has gone into a coma. The people who spent their time dancing, telling jokes or eating now fight, cry and shriek. They mourn, kill and bleed. They don’t bleed for each other, rather each bleeds for his own people.

They forget that we are each other’s own, that we are all one. They forget that Ibrahim is their best friend, that Mohamed’s brother was their classmate. They forget the laughs, the joys and sorrows they shared.

I look around and I see blood. You ask me a question and all I remember is blood. My heart is bleeding and I’m slowly dying. Yet no one understands, because everyone is too busy with his or her own. And I have no own. I lost my own. I lost my home.