Rebels by Accident

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Rebels by Accident Page 12

by Patricia Dunn


  “You knew about the protest, and you’re just telling me now?”

  “Sittu just mentioned it last night.”

  “When? You were asleep when I came to bed.”

  “Well, someone woke me up with her snoring—” I say, but Deanna interrupts me.

  “What is this? Wait until Deanna goes to sleep, then talk about all the juicy stuff?”

  Ignoring her, I put my suitcase on the bed. I still haven’t unpacked.

  “We’re going, right?” Deanna comes to sit at the edge of my bed, watching me pull out everything while trying to find a T-shirt I don’t completely hate.

  “Where are my jeans?” I ask, tossing a pair of shorts in the air.

  “Right here.” Deanna holds up the wrong pair of jeans.

  “Not those. The jeans that don’t make my butt look fat.”

  “Your butt never looks fat,” Deanna says, shaking her head at me. “Just wear these.”

  “Don’t tell me I forgot to pack them,” I whine.

  “Mar, stop freaking out. Who cares about your butt right now? People aren’t going to be worrying about what your butt looks like when we’re protesting for freedom.”

  “Protest?” I grab the jeans from her, then drop them on the floor. “That’s the last place I want to be today. Do you even know why they’re protesting?”

  “Corruption, soaring food prices, half the population lives below the poverty line, making less than two dollars a day…”

  Okay, so she knows. “People can get hurt,” I say, pulling out more T-shirts. I hate them all.

  “I went to tons of demonstrations with my mom when we lived in San Francisco, for gay marriage, women’s right to choose, education, equal pay for equal work. They were always completely safe. No one ever got hurt. And when people got arrested, they were let out right away.”

  “Deanna, that was San Francisco. This is Egypt.” I think about mentioning what Sittu said about what happened to my dad but decide against it out of respect for Baba. “Hassan’s going, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know. Look, you have to see this video link.” Deanna goes back to the computer. “Come here and look at this.”

  I look over her shoulder. “Hassan has 1,122 friends. Popular guy. Wow, and he’s friends with some very pretty girls.”

  “Just look at this.” Deanna clicks the video, and a girl in a headscarf who looks younger than us starts talking in Arabic.

  “Who is she?”

  “Her name is Asmaa Mahfouz.”

  “What is she saying?”

  “How do I know? I didn’t learn that much Arabic from your dad. But it’s not what she’s saying; it’s how she’s saying it. Look at the expression on her face. She’s talking about some serious shit. The video’s from January eighteenth, but I think it has something to do with today’s protest. And this group, the April Sixth Youth Movement—that’s the name of one of the groups calling for action today—they have a huge number of fans.”

  “‘We are all Khaled Said.’” I read from the list of Hassan’s favorites.

  “That’s another group. It’s named after this young guy the police beat to death last year.”

  “That’s horrible.” And I think about how this could have happened to Baba.

  “See why it’s so important we go and show our support?”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “If it weren’t for our country’s money, this Mubarak jerk wouldn’t be able to keep hurting people.”

  “You can’t blame America for what’s happening here,” I say, but I think about what Sittu said last night, and I know Deanna has a point. But if I tell her that, she’ll keep pushing that we go. “You only want to go because you think Hassan will be there,” I snap.

  “You know that’s bull,” she says, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard her so angry with me before. Maybe I’m not being fair. Deanna really does care about saving the world. She’s always getting me to sign some petition to save the whales, the air, kids in Africa. But those petitions are different. Here, speaking out against the mainstream, against politics is dangerous, and it’s not our fight.

  “What’s your problem with Hassan?” she asks.

  “I don’t have a problem.” I walk back over to my suitcase and busy myself with finding a bra.

  “Wait a minute.” She gets up from her chair and pulls the bra from my hand. “Look at me.”

  “Yes?” I turn my face to her but avoid making eye contact. She pulls my chin to try to make me look at her. “I knew it. You were lying yesterday. You do like Hassan.”

  “Give me a break.” I turn to the mirror and hold a blue T-shirt against my chest, pretending I’m really interested in how it looks on me.

  “When are you going to be straight with me?”

  “A bunch of students are going to demonstrate,” I say. “Teenagers. Like us. They’re not revolting or overthrowing the government. It’s no big deal.”

  “Well, who do you think starts revolutions? Did you ever hear of Tiananmen Square?”

  “Of course I have. And do you know how many people were killed there?”

  “Okay, so maybe that’s not a great example, but my point is, young people can change the world. Look at what young people did in our country. They stopped the war—”

  “We went to war with Iraq twice, and we’re still there,” I say, surprising myself. I do know some things about politics.

  “I’m talking about the sixties—how young people protested in Washington and helped stop the Vietnam War.”

  “Fine, Deanna. When we’re back home, if you want me to go to some rally, I will, but not here. This isn’t about us. It’s not our fight. Can I please just get dressed now?” I grab my bra out of her hand.

  Deanna returns to the computer but keeps on lecturing me: “How can you say that? Fighting for people’s rights and freedom isn’t about us? You saw them take away that man at the airport. You’re the one who wanted me to call my mother to help him, and now you’re saying it’s none of our business. And you’re Egyptian!”

  “I’m American. Why can’t you understand that? You calling me Egyptian is no better than what Karen and Beth do to me, making me feel like I don’t belong and I’m some foreigner.”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” she says. Now she’s really pissed off.

  “Deanna?”

  She doesn’t even answer me.

  “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about Karen…”

  “Forget it,” she says, but I’m not convinced she means it.

  “Even if I wanted to go, Sittu won’t let us.”

  “What?” Deanna swings around. “After all she told us about the long tradition of strong women you come from?”

  There’s a knock on the door. “May I come in?” Sittu asks.

  Mom never knocks. Baba only began to knock when I started wearing bras.

  “Of course,” Deanna says.

  “You are up early. It’s not even light yet,” Sittu says. She’s wearing a white scarf loosely over her head.

  “Praying?” Deanna asks.

  “Soon,” she says. “I just finished my ablutions.”

  “What?” Deanna asks.

  “It’s washing up before you pray so you’re clean when you stand before God,” I tell her.

  Deanna looks at me like she can’t decide if she’s impressed or confused that I know this.

  Sittu turns to me. “You pray?”

  “I used to, with Mom. It’s been a while.”

  “Your mother doesn’t pray anymore?”

  “She does—”

  “But you don’t pray with her?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, it’s good your mother doesn’t force you to pray.”

  “My mother’s
not very religious,” Deanna says. “We don’t pray, but I’d like to learn how you do it. I’ve watched on the news when all the Muslims pray together at Mecca. It looks so beautiful.”

  “You are welcome to join me anytime,” Sittu says.

  “Shukran,” Deanna says.

  “Afwan.” Sittu smiles. “After we pray, we can take some breakfast and then talk about what we might do today.”

  “We were just talking about that. Right, Mar?”

  I don’t say a word, and I hope Deanna doesn’t mention the demonstration.

  “I made a list of all the places I wanted to see. Mar, would you get my notebook for me?” She turns and points to the nightstand. I pick up her notebook and hand it to her, wondering what she’s up to. “Let’s see, what did I write down? Go to the pyramids. We’ve already done that.” She flips through pages. “There’s really nothing else.” This is such a lie. Deanna has pages filled with places she wants to see.

  “I guess I have nothing on my agenda for today. Mar, you were talking about going to Tahrir Square, weren’t you?” Her eyes are begging me to back her up. I really do want to. Deanna has always been there for me, but I can’t ask Sittu to take us to this protest, not after all she and I talked about, not when I know how she suffered over what happened to Baba.

  “The mall,” I say. “Is there one nearby?”

  “The mall?” I can hear Deanna straining to keep her cool.

  “Of course,” Sittu says. “It may not be fancy-schmancy.” I try not to laugh at the way Sittu says schmancy. It sounds like she’s heard the word in a movie and isn’t sure if she’s using it correctly. “It’s no Mall of America, but they do have an ice-skating rink.”

  “In Egypt?” Deanna and I ask at the same time.

  “If Jamaicans can compete on a bobsled in the Olympics, Egyptians can ice-skate at the mall. I’ll leave you girls to get some more rest. It’s still very early, and the stores won’t open for a while.” Sittu heads toward the door.

  Deanna calls to her, “Sittu, can you tell me what this girl is saying?” Deanna hits the video link on Hassan’s page.

  Sittu watches for less than a minute, then reaches over Deanna to pause the video. “Her name is Asmaa Mahfouz.”

  “That much I know,” Deanna says.

  “You’ve heard of her?” Sittu looks surprised, but in a good way.

  “It says her name right there in the clip.” Deanna points to the screen. “What is she saying?” She keeps her eyes on the frozen image of Asmaa.

  Sittu takes in a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “She’s talking about the people who set themselves on fire.”

  “On fire? Are they crazy?” I say.

  “That’s what the government would want you to believe, but no. They’re not crazy. Some would say heroic, and others say desperate. One man couldn’t feed his daughter. Asmaa made this video on the day one of these men burned to death. She called for people to join her at Tahrir Square. That was on January eighteenth. It’s hard to believe that was only a week ago.”

  “Why meet there?” Deanna asks.

  “The Parliament buildings are there, and other government buildings. She was very upset when people started posting that this man had committed a sin for killing himself when she believed he was doing this for Egypt, like people in Tunisia had done. She asked people to join her in protest against what our government is doing—for people to stand up for their rights. She told people who worried she would set herself on fire that they needed to meet her there and save her from this. She is a very smart girl.

  “‘I, a girl, am going down to Tahrir Square, and I will stand alone.’” Sittu sounds like she’s reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. “‘And I’ll hold up a banner. Perhaps people will show some honor…’”

  Sittu stops. She looks over at me, and then she looks down at Deanna. “Yes, she wanted people to show some honor and join her. I must have watched that video a thousand times.”

  “Did they?”

  “Three people. And security forces and police stopped them, pushing them into a building. In this video”—Sittu points to another link on the screen—“she talks about what happened and asks people to join her for another demonstration, a demonstration of peace, on January twenty-fifth.”

  “Today,” Deanna says.

  “Yes, today.”

  Sittu’s iPhone beeps. She pulls it from her housecoat pocket and starts to type.

  “You’re texting?” I ask.

  “Twitting,” Sittu says.

  “Tweeting.” I smile.

  “About the protest?” Deanna asks. “We should all go, right?”

  “It’s not the best plan for today,” Sittu replies.

  “Please,” Deanna pleads, “think about what this would mean. It’s our chance to fight for Egypt! We can’t let Asmaa do this alone.”

  “Habibti, she won’t be alone. Many youth will be there, I’m sure. Youth groups are the reason I’m on Facebook. When I see what these young people are doing, they give me hope.”

  “Back home, we use Facebook to tell our friends what song we just downloaded—so lame,” Deanna says.

  “The youth here are doing that too, habibti.”

  “But they are also talking about trying to make a difference,” Deanna says. “We should help them.”

  “Deanna, stop pushing. Sittu doesn’t want us to go, and we need to respect her decision.”

  “She never said she didn’t want us to go. Right?” Deanna looks up at Sittu, her eyes so wide I’m afraid her eyeballs will pop out of their sockets.

  Sittu’s quiet for a long moment. Sittu can’t seriously be considering giving her permission? How totally irresponsible would it be to take us to some protest—especially after what happened to my father—when she’s supposed to keep us safe? Sittu walks over to the mirror. I’ve never noticed it before, but Sittu and I have the same full cheeks, large round eyes, and classic Egyptian nose. My lips aren’t as full as hers, and there is green mixed into the brown of my eyes, but I look like her—a lot. Except the features that look so beautiful on Sittu don’t do anything for me. She adjusts the barrette holding her hair. The movement feels so familiar. Maybe I do have memories from my last visit. Sittu’s hair is all white, and yet she looks so young to me right now. “I would love to go to the protest today.”

  “You can’t do that!” The words just burst out of me.

  “I can’t?” Sittu snaps at me. “You are telling me I can’t?”

  “Last night you told me about Baba getting arrested and tortured!”

  “Your father was tortured?” Deanna sounds as shocked as I was.

  “Mariam.” Sittu moves closer to me, and I flinch.

  “Do you think I would ever put my hand to you?” she asks.

  “You just sound so angry.”

  “Mariam.” Her voice is softer now. “I may do Facebook, but I’m very old-school about some things. A granddaughter yelling at her grandmother about what she can or can’t do is disrespectful.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know, I know.” Sittu holds my chin in her palm. “But think before you speak.”

  “So then we’re going?” Deanna is so smiling inside.

  Sittu drops her hand. “I love your spirit, Deanna. You remind me very much of a dear friend of mine.”

  Now I know Deanna’s beaming inside.

  “But, habibti, Mubarak’s security forces are also looking at these tweets and Facebook updates and all the communication about the protest. They know exactly where people plan to gather, and they will have these areas blocked off. Look at what happened just last week to poor Asmaa—only three people and so many security forces. It’s wonderful that there are so many young people trying to make change, but this will be one more demonstration in a long line of useless demonstrations.”

>   “Really?” Deanna sounds crushed.

  Sittu’s phone beeps. She ignores it, but it continues to beep. Finally she reads the message on the screen then says, “Deanna, may I please sit at the computer?” Sittu sits down, and we watch as she pulls up another video of Asmaa.

  “Is that new?” Deanna asks.

  “Yes. From last night.” Sittu hits play.

  “She looks happier in this video,” Deanna comments.

  “Shush, please,” Sittu says.

  We’re silent as Sittu listens to the girl speak in Arabic. Asmaa seems more passionate than she did before; she looks as if whatever she’s saying is the most important thing in the world. And from the way Sittu is so attentive and still, I think she must feel the same way.

  When the video ends, Sittu shuts down the computer. “Okay, I am going to do the morning prayer, and then we can have a little to eat, unless you want to sleep more.”

  “But what did she say?” Deanna asks.

  “More words.”

  Last night, Sittu said words without action have no meaning. I can’t help but wonder if this applies to Sittu too, or if she’s excused from this.

  Sittu pauses. “Okay, I’ll tell you, but then no more talk of this today.”

  Deanna nods, but I can’t believe she’ll let this go.

  “She talks about how people have been working very hard for today’s protests. Children under fourteen and older people in their sixties and seventies, old people like me”—Sittu half smiles—“all working to spread the word about the peaceful protest. She says if we all stand together against the security forces and the police, we can demand our rights—that we must demand our rights.”

  “Please, let us go and support her and Egypt.” Deanna sounds like, any minute, she’s going to get down on her knees and beg.

  “You agreed: no more talk,” Sittu says. “I believe you are a woman of honor.”

  “Fine,” Deanna says, and when I look into her eyes, I realize this is the first time I’ve ever seen her look defeated.

  “Thank you for your love of this country.” Sittu kisses Deanna on the forehead, and I’m feeling jealous. “If I could,” Sittu continues, “I would give you an Egyptian passport, though unfortunately, your American passport gets you treated far better here. Still, in my eyes, you are Egypt.”

 

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