In 2007, I was ten years old, living in Michigan with my mom, while my dad lived in Saudi Arabia. We chose Egypt as a good place to meet up and enjoy all the sights – the Sphinx, the pyramids, King Tut's tomb, and Valley of the Kings. We took the obligatory camel ride and traveled down the Nile. Of all these amazing experiences, however, what I remember most is the tear gas.

On this particular day, my parents and I – along with some couples, the tour guide, and a few retirees – were touring the ancient city of Luxor. We stepped off the air-conditioned bus and into the stifling, dry heat of the Egyptian desert. The wind brought little relief to our overheated bodies as we moved slowly toward the entrance of the Luxor Temple. The tour guide was saying something about this crumbling palace of stone that looked similar to all the others I'd seen, but I wasn't paying attention. I was staring at the angry mob across the street. A group of Egyptians with picket signs were marching toward soldiers, who stood with automatic weapons drawn.

“What's going on?” someone asked.

“Oh,” said the tour guide nonchalantly, “they are angry because the government is going to tear down their homes to build a new museum.”

“Well, isn't that sad,” said one of the retired women, moving toward the entrance of the temple.

I was still watching the mob of about three hundred – men, women, and a few teenagers – opposing the destruction of the homes their families had occupied for generations. The mob was yelling and not backing down from the armed soldiers. Suddenly the group became quiet, and one man began talking. He was probably saying something about how the government did not have the right to take their homes. A soldier yelled back, probably saying something like, “Go home or we'll shoot” or “Don't mess with us or we will tear gas you!” If he had said it in English, I might have known to run.

You could feel the tension between the two groups, like a rubber band stretched too tight; one move from either side, and it would snap.

The army seemed to give one last warning. Still no one moved. My mom was trying to hurry me along, but I had stopped moving too. The soldiers raised a large cannon. Everyone was watching, waiting to see what would happen. We didn't run. The army had their backs to us, so we felt we weren't in harm's way. The Egyptian citizens were standing their ground, but their body language told us they were nervous.

The armed men said something, put on masks and aimed their guns. The protesters, seeing that the army would fire, turned and ran as the cannons exploded with an ear-shattering pop. A canister trailing white dust flew toward the crowd, exploding in midair, releasing its contents. People dropped to the ground, rubbing their eyes furiously with their hands.

“What did they just shoot?” I asked the tour guide.

“Tear gas. But don't worry – we will be fine. This is not a normal event in Egypt. This is the first time I've ever seen it,” he assured us.

Well, I thought, that makes two of us!

Nevertheless, he rushed us toward the temple. Just as we thought we were out of harm's way, my new Egyptian cotton shirt started to flutter in the breeze. There was a haze over where the army was arresting the crying protesters. All of a sudden, the white cloud started blowing our way! We turned our backs to the gas and ran!

Have you ever chopped hot chili peppers and then rubbed your eyes with hands still covered in juice? It hurts. A lot. Your eyes start to water and sting. Well, tear gas hurts about twenty times more.

We ran into the temple, not stopping to pay admission. We hurried through the maze-like interior, trying to outrun the painful wind. My insides burned. My nose, throat, and lungs stung with each breath. We passed unrecognizable hieroglyphics and wove between massive pillars until we pressed ourselves flat against a 3,000-year-old wall. I coughed until I felt like I had no lungs. My eyes felt like they were bleeding. I could barely see, they were watering so much. My mom handed out tissues to filter the painful air. After a couple of minutes we began to calm down. The tears stopped, the pain subsided, and I could breathe without as much discomfort.

We saw what looked like a courtyard – a sanctuary from the wind – and headed toward it. Fresh air blew in from the opposite direction. We put down our tissues, welcoming the relief. We started to feel safe again, and the tour guide – eyes still red – began to tell us about the Luxor Temple. We had run directly to a beautiful stone statue of a scarab about seven feet long. We admired the ancient symbol of the god Khepera, who was believed to push the sun over the earth, bringing new days, just as the dung beetle – or scarab – rolls its ball of dung over hundreds of miles through the brutal desert to protect the home of its offspring from other beetles.

The image of the scarab stuck in my mind. The god Khepera had created hundreds of thousands of days in which these Egyptians had lived in their ancestral homes. Now these homes were threatened and, just like the dung beetle, the Egyptians were attempting to protect their children's homes and refused to stop pushing.

I've searched online for information about a new museum built in Luxor since our visit and have found none. I'd like to think that perhaps the pushing paid off and the locals are still in their homes. The tear gas may have stung for a while, but it connected me to those people and their struggles.