The Republic of False Truths

by Alaa Al Aswany

  A whole minute passed, during which he walked beside her in silence. Then she said, “Are you thinking about something else?”

  “I’m ordering my thoughts so I can answer you.”

  “Go ahead, professor,” she exclaimed in amusement. Then he said seriously, “You know, Danya, in the days of the Roman Empire, the method of execution used was to throw the accused to the lions to devour. In those days, this punishment was so well accepted that people used to go and enjoy watching those horrendous scenes. What would you say if the Italian government was to revive the tradition and start throwing criminals to the lions again? Would that be acceptable?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “So we have to understand Islam in the same way. Primitive punishments, such as flogging and stoning, existed in a specific historical context which has now come to an end. By the way, the same punishments existed in Jewish law but were abolished. Islam has to be understood as consisting of general humane principles—justice, equality, freedom.”

  “So you’re against the application of religious law?”

  “The law has to bring about justice. If we are to apply the punishments that were applied a thousand years ago, we’ll never be able to realise justice.”

  “If Sheikh Shamel heard you, he’d call you an infidel for sure.”

  “Sheikh Shamel and his like are paid millions to spread Wahhabi thought and support the authorities. Frankly, I don’t consider them men of religion to start with. They’re businessmen.”

  “But millions of Muslims want religious law to be applied.”

  “Religious law is the rules of Our Lord, and jurisprudence is the method by which those rules are to be applied. The law is divine; jurisprudence is a human endeavour. It follows that one cannot apply the words of jurisprudents who lived centuries ago. We have to develop a new jurisprudence suited to the age. Islam permitted the purchase of girl slaves for sexual pleasure. Do you really think we should put girls on sale in Ataba Square, for example, and allow anyone who bought one to sleep with her? It is not acceptable, in the twenty-first century, to cut off someone’s hand or flog him or throw him into a hole and stone him to death. ‘Castigation’ may have been useful a thousand years ago but it cannot be applied now. If your relative is determined to implement the punishment of castigation, then we have the right to buy slave girls for sexual pleasure. You can’t abandon one thing and apply another. If we’re going to bring history back, we have to bring it all back.”

  Khaled was quiet for a moment, then continued, “Would you like me to tell you about a fixed principle that never changes? Everything that is foreign to justice and the truth is foreign to Islam. Everything that is against human dignity is against Islam.”

  She said nothing for a while, so he asked, “Are you convinced?”

  “I’ll have to think about it,” she replied lightly.

  Suddenly, he stopped walking, looked at his watch and said, “We have to go to Lecture Hall 95, quickly.”

  “Why?”

  “We have a meeting to prepare for Tuesday’s demonstration.”

  “Please take me to the gate first.”

  “You don’t want to come to the meeting?”

  She was silent for a moment, as though plucking up her courage, then she said, “I’m sorry, Khaled. I won’t be able to take part in the demonstration.”

  “You agreed.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  He stopped walking and looked at her. Apparently on the verge of anger, he said, “May I know the reason?”

  “My participation in the demonstration could harm my family.”

  “If everyone thought the way you do, no one would take part in the demonstration.”

  “I don’t think it’s a shame or a sin to be afraid for my family.”

  “Who told you I’m not afraid for my family? At least your family are important people. My family are poor. They wouldn’t survive a single night at a police station.”

  She smiled sadly and said, “I was sure you wouldn’t appreciate my situation.”

  “No, I do not appreciate your situation.”

  Sharply, she said, “So you want me to bring harm to my family to make you happy?”

  They had reached the gate. He looked at her and said, “Danya, the issue is larger than our fear for our families. Many have sacrificed themselves for change, so that we can be decent citizens in a decent state. So that the police treat the lowest of citizens with respect. So that the law is applied to everybody. So that there won’t be anyone in Egypt who can’t find food to eat, who is without shelter, who cannot afford a doctor.”

  She smiled and said, “You mean that I, specifically, am going to make that change?”

  Eagerly, he replied, “Your participation in the demonstration is more important than mine. It’s natural for me to demand change, because I’m poor, but when someone from a rich family demands change, it’s something noble, because she’s defending the truth disinterestedly.”

  “There’s bound to be rich people other than me in the demonstration.”

  “You’re waiting for others to do what has to be done in your place.”

  She shook her head and said, “There’s no point in discussing this. I’m going. Bye.”

  He tried to say something, but she turned her back and left, while he followed her with his gaze until she had gone through the gate. The driver leapt up and opened the door, she got in, and little by little the car took her away until it disappeared into the midst of the traffic.

  9

  Dear Mazen,

  I thank you so much for agreeing to be my friend and I thank you too for describing me as beautiful, even though I think of myself as ordinary. My number is 0127 555 2518. You are welcome to phone me any time. I got home an hour ago, took a hot shower, made myself a cup of Nescafé, and thought, I have to talk to you.

  I went to the interrogation at 10 a.m. as they asked me to on the summons. In its dirt and neglect, the Education Directorate building perfectly expresses the state of education in Egypt. I climbed the stairs to Legal Affairs, where the person in charge of the interrogation was a very fat man whose name, according to the wooden nameplate on his desk, was Muatazz Bahiy. Next to him was a secretary whose name I don’t know. He wrote down my answers. After the standard questions about my name, age, and profession, he said, “The headmaster accuses you of wearing inappropriate dress during work. What do you say?”

  “My clothes are these, the ones I’m wearing in front of you, sir. Do you see anything inappropriate about them? I don’t cover my hair but I don’t believe that that contravenes the law. My problem with the headmaster isn’t to do with my clothes.”

  “What is the problem, then?” he asked.

  “The problem,” I said, “is that I don’t give private classes and that I conscientiously explain everything in the classroom. The problem is that I’m a threat to the private classes network led by the headmaster in partnership with the chief teacher and most of the other teachers. All of them extort money from the girls by forcing them to take private classes and attend ‘review groups.’ ”

  The investigator signalled to the secretary, who stopped writing. Then he said, “Prof. Asmaa, I have to caution you. Every word you say will be recorded against you because these are official minutes.”

  I replied, “I stick to every word I have said. And I’m prepared to provide proof.”

  He stopped the interrogation, ordered me a glass of lemonade, and embarked on a friendly chat with me. He told me about the English teacher who’d taught him when he was a student at Saidiya Secondary. I felt he was a nice man. After a little while, he smiled and said, “I think your nerves have calmed down now.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Would you like to continue the interrogation?”

  “By all means. I want
to put on record that I teach English to three classes and not one of the girls failed the exam in my subject. Despite this, the headmaster, instead of thanking me, persecuted me and made a malicious complaint against me because I threaten his interests.”

  He stopped the interrogation again and asked me in annoyance, “What’s the matter with you? I’m telling you that what you’re saying will open the gates of Hell before you. Do you think the headmaster will keep his mouth closed when you accuse him of pressuring the students to take private classes—that he won’t defend himself?”

  I said, “I swear before God it’s the truth.”

  In a low voice, he told me, “I believe you. But do you think the headmaster is doing this on his own? Wouldn’t he have to have backing from important people in the ministry?”

  I said, “I shall defend what is right no matter what the cost.”

  “Are you a teacher or a lawyer?”

  “It’s up to everyone to fight the corruption that’s around them.”

  The interrogator laughed (at my naivety, perhaps) and said, “Before you fight corruption you have to know your capabilities. Be very careful you don’t take on an unequal fight or your future will be ruined for nothing.”

  He gave me no opportunity to respond, but continued rapidly, “Listen. We’ll limit our interrogations to the charge. I’ll question you and you’ll say it’s not true you wore inappropriate dress. Then I’ll get an undertaking from you that you will wear appropriate dress. You’ll sign the undertaking, and the subject, from the legal perspective, will be closed.”

  “If I write an undertaking against myself,” I told him, “it means I acknowledge the truth of the accusation.”

  “Certainly not. It’s just a formal procedure. If the charge were true, I’d sign off on a penalty against you. But I’m going to make do with the undertaking and suspend the complaint. What do you say?”

  I said nothing. I wasn’t sure what to do. What he said made sense, but my anger and sense of being unjustly treated were pushing me towards confrontation. The interrogator smiled and said, “Very well. I’ll write that you were taken ill and postpone the interrogation for a week so you can think about it at your leisure.”

  I asked him, “During that week, should I go to the school?”

  He answered, “From the legal perspective, no decision has been issued barring you from working, from which it follows that you ought to go to the school so that your absence isn’t used against you.”

  I thanked the interrogator and thought about it on the way home. I found his logic sound. For sure, the headmaster must have someone covering for him in the ministry. It followed that he could do as he liked. I’m not afraid of them and I don’t care if they fire me, but I’m sad, Mazen. I don’t believe I should be punished this way just because I carry out my duties conscientiously. Tell me what you think. Should I act according to the interrogator’s logic and sign the undertaking so that the complaint can be suspended, or should I tell the whole truth and fight to the end? I’m sorry to bother you with all my problems.

  Even though I’m depressed, I’m going to pull myself together, for your sake, and smile so you can see the dimples. See them?

  Bye, my friend.

  Asmaa

  10

  How did Ashraf Wissa manage to escape so quickly?

  He was lying on top of Ikram, naked and stoned, when he heard the knocking on the door. Leaping off her and snatching up his dressing gown, which was lying on the floor, he ran into the bathroom, locked the door, turned on the shower, and stood there, panting, under the hot water. He could imagine what must have happened. His wife Magda had come home early for some reason, tried to open the door with her key, and found that it was locked from the inside. Obviously, she’d assumed he was having sex with Ikram: there was no other explanation and no matter what stories he might make up, she’d never believe him. She would certainly have discovered Ikram’s nightdress, seen the cushions on the ground, and understood everything. She would, for sure, be punishing Ikram right now, before coming to him. He knew Magda and her penchant for drama. She’d yell and cry and slap her face and bewail the luck that had cast her into the clutches of a man like him, who’d betrayed her with the maid in her own house. She’d make his life hell. She was capable of keeping the screaming and wailing up for an entire day without getting tired, till his nerves were completely destroyed, and then, at the end, she’d take a hot bath and sleep as soundly as a child. Magda had been given an opportunity to play the victim. She’d make him an object of scandal everywhere and tell all their relatives and friends, starting with Butrus and Sarah. He’d never be able to look them in the eye again. They’d caught the respected, model father with the maid. He came out from under the shower, put on his dressing gown, and sat on the edge of the bathtub. He wished he had a joint to calm his nerves. He closed his eyes and recited the Lord’s Prayer to himself, then prayed to Jesus Christ to save him from the scandal. Opening his eyes again, he felt somewhat better. He bowed his head and breathed deeply and little by little his fear turned to displeasure. What had he done that he should hide from his wife like a guilty child? No doubt, he’d made a mistake. But should the blame fall on him alone, or should Magda share the responsibility? If she’d been a good-natured, easy-going wife, would he ever have become involved with the maid?

  Dear Madame Magda, you’re not going to take everything! You’re not going to neglect me and despise me and convince Butrus and Sarah to emigrate and leave me on my own! You’re not going to live just for your work, as though you weren’t responsible for a house and a husband, and end up with everyone’s sympathy, as though you were the one who was hard done by! The role of the betrayed wife doesn’t suit you, Magda. You’re the cause of what happened. I had an affair with the maid because I found in her everything you were incapable of providing. Because she respects me, because she worries about me and takes care of me and believes me and thinks of me as her man. Because she doesn’t despise me and doesn’t remind me of my failure. Because, quite simply, she’s a real woman and not artificial and false, like you.

  Ashraf approached the locked door, put his hands in the pockets of the dressing gown, and decided to confront Magda, whatever the consequences. You’re going to expose me to scandal but I too am going to tell everyone the truth about you, one by one. He plucked up his courage and summoned up the strongest phrases to direct at his wife. He heard footfalls drawing close, then a quiet knock on the bathroom door.

  In a hoarse voice, he asked, “Who’s there?”

  “Ikram, Ashraf Bey.”

  He realised that Magda must be with her. She’d brought Ikram with her to confront her with her partner in crime. Very well. Let today be the end of things between us, Magda. He cleared his throat and slowly opened the door. Then, assuming the normal tone of a master speaking to the maid, he said, “What is it, Ikram? Is something wrong?”

  She was wearing her work dress, and he was amazed to find that she was alone. Looking embarrassed, she said, “I’m very sorry. I don’t know what to tell you, sir. Mansour, my husband, is waiting in the living room.”

  Events were moving too fast for Ashraf to take them in. He looked at her as though he didn’t understand. Then he said, “Why is Mansour here?”

  She replied in a low voice, “He wants money.”

  “So why doesn’t he get it from you at home?”

  “He asked but I refused.”

  There was a silence. Then she sighed and said, “He always does this. When I refuse to give him money, he comes to where I’m working and threatens me.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Would you like to meet him, sir?”

  “Why should I meet him?” Ashraf exclaimed in alarm.

  Ikram said apologetically, “I’d like to ask you for five hundred pounds, sir. I’ll stuff them in his pocket and send him off, and I
’ll pay you back from my wages at the end of the month.”

  He had no alternative. He had to get rid of Mansour by any means possible; he couldn’t remain in his house a moment longer: Mansour was a thug and an addict, he might do anything, plus he was her legally married husband. He might assault him, or make a complaint at the police station and accuse him of adultery with his wife. The unsettling thoughts multiplied in his mind and he decided to act quickly. He went straight to the bedroom, Ikram following behind, and gave her five hundred pounds. She left and he remained standing in the middle of the room, stunned, unable to concentrate. After a short while, Ikram returned, on her face an expression that fluctuated between embarrassment and amusement.

  “It’s done, sir,” she said. “He’s gone, thank God.”

  Ashraf didn’t respond, so she continued in a low voice, “I don’t know what to say to you, sir. Sorry, again.”

  A fit of anger suddenly seized him and he said, “All the same, I don’t get it, Ikram. Even if Mansour wanted money, the normal thing for him to do would be to ask for it from Madame Magda, because she’s the one who gives you your wages. Why would he come in the morning, when we’re together?”

  She didn’t answer. He was still wearing the dressing gown over his naked body. He sat down on the bed and tucked his legs underneath him, then opened the drawer of the bedside table and took out a joint, which he lit. He took a deep drag and the joint glowed brightly, exuding the penetrating smell of hashish. He coughed and said, “To be honest, Ikram, what happened is strange and suspicious.”

  She gave him a look of something close to reproach, then moved nearer to him, so that he smelled the smell of perfumed soap, and whispered, “I told you, sir, to think of the money as a loan till the first of the month.”

  She pulled his head towards her breast, but he pushed her away with his hand and said, “For heaven’s sake, don’t talk nonsense! You know I could never take money from you. Plus, do you think that settles the Mansour problem? Of course it doesn’t. He’s going to jump out at us every day and demand money. It’s blackmail, and I won’t stand for it. Really, it’s appalling.”