“Nonsense.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing in Egypt is going to change.”
“Do you think the president will go?”
He let out a derisive laugh that seemed artificial.
“Are you an idiot, Nourhan? Since when could a few kids get rid of the president of the republic? Even if they keep it up for a year, nothing can possibly change.”
“I’m very worried.”
“About what?”
“I’m afraid the president will go and there’ll be chaos.”
“That’s because you don’t understand the nature of the state in Egypt. ‘The state’ means National Security, General Intelligence, Military Intelligence, the police, the army, the media, and the judiciary. Each of these is a strong institution whose only loyalty is to the president.”
“Every day we say the demonstrations are coming to an end and they get bigger.”
“Just be patient for a few days and you’ll see. All those damned kids who are demonstrating will be arrested and tried before military courts.”
“That’s speculation, not information.”
He smiled and said, “It’s my reading of history. Every struggle between the people and the state ends with the defeat of the people. In Egypt, the authorities are capable of failing at everything, except the subjugation of the Egyptians.”
28
Ashraf Wissa opened the door to the flat and rushed out onto the stairway. Ikram called out to him, then ran after him, closing the door behind her. In a few minutes, Ashraf and Ikram were in the middle of Tahrir Square. The scene was of sublime, mythic, and awe-inspiring proportions, as though some religious rite were being practised by thousands of believers. Everywhere throngs of demonstrators shouted and ran as death pursued them. Groups of snipers in civilian clothes were scattered over the roofs of the American University and other buildings overlooking the square, each group consisting of a small number of soldiers armed with recent-model sniper rifles, led by an officer. They had all placed white handkerchiefs on their heads, perhaps as protection from the sunlight, so that they could aim, or perhaps to hide their faces, in case anyone managed to take photos of them. Each sniper killed with the calmness and precision of a surgeon, squinting down the viewfinder of his rifle and then choosing his victim. At that point, a mixture of determination and hatred would appear on his face, after which he would squeeze the trigger and the bullet would be launched, to bury itself in the victim’s head—one bullet, unequivocal, conclusive, putting an end to memories of childhood and parents’ care, to the toils of study and the joys of academic success, to dreams of love and marriage. It all ended with a single squeeze of the trigger. The killing went on and the martyrs fell, one after another. The demonstrators refused to flee from death, as though challenging it. Instead of running away from the sources of fire, they surged towards them. None of them was afraid of dying any longer, as though they had become united in the will of one giant being that would not be still until it had realised the goal for which it had come out onto the streets. Every time a martyr fell, they picked up his corpse, shouting slogans and crying “God is great!,” and moved further forward in the direction of the Ministry of Interior. One young man fell next to Ashraf. He had been shouting slogans at his side and suddenly went silent and bent over as though looking at something on the ground, then fell. The demonstrators picked him up and Ashraf went towards him through the throng, Ikram tugging at his sleeve, her voice lost in the clamour. Ashraf kept on moving closer until he got to where the martyr was being carried on the shoulders of his colleagues. He looked into his face. It appeared so calm that Ashraf imagined he was about to smile. He was wearing trainers, jeans, and a shabby, cheap, black pullover. A strange, obscure desire seized Ashraf, and he went even closer, until he was up against the youth’s body, then stretched out his hand and held the other’s for a few moments, until the stream of demonstrators pushed him away. The boy’s hand was cold to the touch and somehow familiar—the same feeling as a friend’s handshake leaves on a cold day. Ashraf then distanced himself from the demonstrators and walked slowly till he reached the wall of the university, Ikram in tow. All of a sudden, he crouched down on the ground, put his head between his hands, and started gasping.
“Ashraf Bey, what’s wrong?” Ikram yelled, but he didn’t reply. His face was pale and he was breathing with difficulty. She said, “Come on. Let’s go home.”
They walked in silence. They passed through the lobby of the building and, as soon as they got into the flat, she seized his hand and pulled him along, and he yielded to her like a child. She opened the door of the bathroom and whispered tenderly, “Have a shower and change your clothes while I make you a bite to eat.”
A little while later, he was sitting in the study, completely silent. Ikram came, sat down next to him, and put her arm around his body. He took out a joint but she said, “You’re tired. No hashish, please, for my sake.”
Without looking at her, he said, “Don’t worry.”
He lit the cigarette and it glowed brightly. She brought sandwiches and went on at him until he began to eat. Trying to start an ordinary conversation, she said, “By the way, when we’re together, we should bolt the front door. Madame Magda might come back at any moment.”
Brusquely, he replied, “As long as there are demonstrations, Magda will never come back.”
Silence took over once more, and Ashraf lit another joint. As though realising that there was no point in ignoring what had happened in the square, Ikram sighed and said, as though talking to herself, “I would never have thought that Hosni Mubarak could be such a criminal.”
“It’s a regime defending its interests.”
“What had the young man done wrong for them to kill him?”
“Mubarak and his men have wealth in the billions. If the regime falls, their fortunes will be confiscated and they’ll be put on trial. The bastards are prepared to kill a million Egyptians to stay in power.”
“You mean they have no fear of God at all?” Ikram asked.
Her questions were those of a child, despite which her voice was not without a certain seductiveness. Under normal circumstances, he would have taken her in his arms and covered her with kisses, but he had changed. He was no longer as he had been. He was still preoccupied with the scenes of killing and could still feel the touch of the martyr’s hand in his own. Suddenly, she hugged him and laid her head on his chest, as though she could feel instinctively that he needed her. She began kissing him, but, for the first time since she’d known him, he turned his head aside and pushed her gently away, saying, “I can see the mother and father when they tell them that their son has been shot dead.”
“God grant them patience!”
“I feel as though the boy they killed in front of me could have been my son Butrus.”
“God forbid!”
“You know what, Ikram? I’m really angry with myself.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve fallen short, so far short.”
29
Dear Mazen,
You can’t imagine how happy I was to see you yesterday. You asked me about my problem with my mother. I told you that it all ended okay. That’s not true. There are lots of things I can’t say and that I prefer, as usual, to write. I have no idea why I’m that way. I know you’re busy but I need to speak to you. You’re the only one who understands me. I’m full of contradictions, Mazen. I can be normal, and then suddenly do something unexpected that I don’t understand. Sometimes I feel that I’m two personalities. I live out one comprehensible personality whom everybody sees and, inside, another strange, hidden personality will suddenly appear. When I got home on Wednesday morning, I was very tired from the running, the smell of the gas, and the tension. I wanted to take a hot shower and sleep but I found my mother sitting in the living room waiting for me. I’d lied to
her and told her I’d be spending the night at my girlfriend Zeinab’s to help her sister with her English homework. I found my mother sitting in the living room. Sarcastically, she asked me, “How’s your friend Zeinab?”
I realised she didn’t believe me. I think she would have been ready to go along with my story if I’d insisted on the lie. If I’d told her, for example, “Zeinab’s fine and says hello,” she would have said a couple of stupid things to me, as usual, and then left me in peace. But along comes my other personality, the one I don’t understand, and I found myself saying, “I wasn’t at Zeinab’s.”
Naturally, my mother was upset and asked, “Where were you?”
I told her, “I was at the demonstrations.”
“You lied to me, Asmaa?” she shrieked. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, you liar?”
A strange calm came over me, as though what was happening was happening to someone else, or I was witnessing what was going on through a sheet of protective glass. I told her, “I lied to you on the phone so you wouldn’t worry. Now that I’m home, I’m telling you the truth. I was at the demonstration and the police would have arrested me if I hadn’t found a place to hide with some people.”
“What people were you with?” shrieked my mother.
I said, “A kind man called Ashraf Wissa hid me in his house till the police had gone.”
Even now I don’t know why I behaved that way—why I decided to push her to the limit and why I refused to go on lying. Was it because I’m so proud of the revolution? Or was it a desire to challenge my mother and reject everything she considers proper?
My mother shrieked, “Shame on you! I’m sick and your father’s getting old. He has diabetes and high blood pressure and he’s still living in a strange place working like an ox on a waterwheel so he can support us. What am I to tell him? You want me to tell him, ‘Your daughter spent the night with people she doesn’t know and the police are looking for her’?”
During confrontations like this, my mother just keeps shrieking and doesn’t wait for an answer. I remained completely silent till her fit of temper had ended in bitter tears. Then suddenly I did something strange. Can you believe I hugged her? She laid her head on my shoulder and said, “Go easy on us, Asmaa. We’re old and tired.”
Those words pained me so much, Mazen. My run-ins with my mother are the worst thing in my life. She and I spend all our time alone in a closed flat endlessly clashing with one another, as though we were living out some divine punishment. She shrieks and cries, and I take pity on her and console her. Then, in an instant, she provokes me, I respond, and we begin again. Quarrels and shrieking and lamentation. Imagine! In my heart of hearts, I totally sympathise with my mother! I can never take my confrontations with her to the limit. I always get to a point with her where I’m looking for a compromise to make her happy, but then I go back and stick to my position and she gets even angrier with me. It was because I wanted to avoid a confrontation with her that I agreed to meet all those suitors, and the same thing made me tell her I’d be spending the night at Zeinab’s. Can you believe I have such a split personality? I’m convinced of all the positions I take. I believe absolutely in my choices. But I feel pity for my mother and understand how she thinks. This fluctuation between loving my mother and being at odds with her is painful. The worst thing in the world is to clash violently with someone you love, because at the very time that you’re challenging her, you’re feeling pity for her. I waited till my mother had calmed down and then said, “I’m tired. I need to sleep.”
I withdrew and took a shower and when I came out, I found she’d made breakfast and put it in my room. This tenderness pains me more than the harshness. I knew that the big demonstration was on Friday, but she was aware that the mid-year break had begun, so I had no excuse to go out. I spent two days with her in the house. I tried every method I know to calm her down. I asked her to tell me about when she was young. How had she lived before she was married? Talking about that makes her happy. She tells me about the Saniya Secondary School for Girls and the Faculty of Commerce, where she met my father. He was in his final year and she in her first. He met her in the library and offered to help her with a research project she was doing. It’s a story I’ve heard from her lots of times and each time she looks happy as she recalls it. On Thursday evening, I sat with her and we watched the Turkish serial. After the serial, my mother is at her best, and little by little her anger turned into loving, calm reproach. As she sipped her cup of milky tea, she said, “I mean, if you were sensible, wouldn’t you be sitting in your own house with your husband and children by now, instead of demonstrations and all that nonsense?”
“It’s all fate.”
This is the best answer in such circumstances. She said, “You’re good-hearted, Asmaa, but you don’t understand how the world works. This country of ours is broken and it’ll never be fixed. Enough of wasting time. Think of yourself. A woman without her own household and children is in a wretched situation, no matter how successful she may be in any field.”
I didn’t answer. Little by little, I steered the conversation to other subjects. On Friday, after the prayer, our street filled with demonstrators. I sat with my mother, following the demonstrations from the balcony. I felt she was a bit taken aback. Perhaps the size of the demonstration, which included thousands of people, surprised her. Watching them, she said, “It’s such a shame for them to waste themselves. I feel for their families.”
I said, “It’s because of thinking like that that we’ve reached rock bottom. If everyone opposed injustice and wasn’t afraid, Egypt would be a decent country by now.”
My mother said nothing. She kept watching the demonstration and seemed moved. When the demonstrators began chanting “Come and join us! Egyptians, come on out!” I couldn’t stand it any longer. I stood in front of her and said, “I have to go out.”
“Go out where?”
“I want to go with your blessing.”
“You want to kill me?” she shrieked.
“You’ve seen for yourself that the demonstration is peaceful, Mother.”
“Peaceful my foot! You’re not going out, Asmaa.”
“I’m twenty-five years old. I have the right to decide for myself.”
“When you get married, your husband will be responsible for you. Now, your father and I are. If you’re arrested or anything happens to you, it’ll be us who suffer.”
“I’m the only person responsible for my conduct and if something happens to me, don’t worry about it. I’ll manage.”
I knew the conversation would go nowhere. I went out quickly, my mother’s voice ringing in my ears as she called after me. Of course I felt guilty but I would have felt even more so if I hadn’t taken part in the demonstration. It was a real battle. The officers were firing gas canisters at us like madmen. I had an onion, which I broke open and kept sniffing so I could resist the gas. It’s something I learned from Facebook. I almost lost consciousness more than once. When we got to Giza Square, the shooting started. Martyrs fell before me. The officers were shooting randomly and the demonstrators were picking up the wounded on motorcycles which they got from God knows where. One of them told me they were using motorcycles because the ambulances were handing the injured over to the police. Like you, Mazen, since the Friday of Rage, I’m no longer the person I was. Like you, I feel that I owe the martyrs something. I watched our People reveal itself in its finest form, but I noticed too that many stood on balconies and at windows, observing what was going on, as though watching a film. They saw us die and took no action. I can’t understand the position of these spectators. As usual, I await your explanation. Thank God, Mazen, that I got to know you! I don’t know how I would have lived through these events without you at my side. I’ll end my letter with a smile (do you still love the two dimples?).
Goodnight.
Asmaa
30
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br /> The officer looked grim and irritable. Gasping with anger, he shouted at the demonstrators, “I’m telling you, move the metal from the street!”
They didn’t move but stayed where they were, watching the officer warily and feeling a variety of emotions. They weren’t going to let the car go in and kill their colleagues but at the same time they sensed the strangeness of the situation. They were addressing a police officer, standing in his way and blocking his path. Where had they found this strength? Every moment that passed took them further from retreat and added to their steadfastness. The officer shouted, “I swear to Almighty God, if you don’t move the metal right now, I’ll show you what’s what, you bastards!”
For a moment, silence reigned. Then Khaled Madany’s voice was heard: “You have no right to insult us, sir! You have to treat us with respect because we’re Egyptian citizens, just like you. And you should reconsider your position. You should be standing with the people.”
This provoked the officer so much that he yelled, “No way, sunshine! I’m defending Mubarak. Mubarak is your master, and you and everyone with you deserve to have your bottoms smacked!”
Shouts of protest arose from everyone standing there, but the officer turned his back on them, said something, and the back door of the car immediately opened and three privates jumped out, went over to the pieces of metal, and bent down to move them from the road. The demonstrators rushed forward and pushed the soldiers away, but they started beating them, the demonstrators responding with words and kicks. As the clash intensified, Khaled approached the car and shouted, “Sir! Whatever you do, you will not enter the square!”
The officer’s face darkened and he was about to say something but decided against it and looked at the ground for a moment. Then he pulled out his pistol and, without leaving the car, fired a shot. One shot, the sound of it ringing out and bursting like a jet of flame. Danya heard Khaled cry “Aaah!”—a long scream that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him and to be proclaiming some discovery. Khaled fell to the ground. Danya rushed to him and bent over him. His face was still, as though it had stiffened before its expression could form itself completely, as though he had been cut off in mid-sentence, as though he’d wanted to say something but had run out of time. The bullet had left a hole in the middle of his forehead from which blood was pouring. Did Danya scream and burst into tears? Did she shake Khaled and call on him to get up? Did she think that what was happening wasn’t real? Did she think it was a nightmare from which she’d awake? Did she wait for Khaled to stand and wipe his forehead with his hand, the hole disappearing and the blood stopping while he spoke to her and laughed with her as he had been doing a few moments earlier? His body, prone on the asphalt, the hole in his forehead, and his staring eyes were the last things Danya remembered clearly. After that, the only things in her mind were shaky, distorted pictures, wrapped in a thick fog, like scenes ripped from a battered, out-of-focus copy of an old film. The soldiers hurried to get back in the car, which reversed and then moved off fast towards the Omar Makram mosque. Her colleagues were shouting, some of them trying to pursue the car and hang on to it to stop it. Danya was crying and screaming and hugging Khaled, and her white coat had become stained with blood. Her colleagues carried Khaled’s body to a car that arrived from God knows where. They made way for her so she could get in next to him. She put his head on her legs and tried to staunch the wound with compresses, as though Khaled were a patient who could be given first aid: she and her colleagues couldn’t believe what had happened, and it was as though they were waiting for a miracle, waiting for something suddenly to happen that would bring Khaled back the way he had been. As soon as they reached Qasr El Eini hospital, they placed him on a stretcher and ran with him till they found a teacher from the faculty. They didn’t speak much. The scene was self-explanatory. The faculty member asked them to lift Khaled onto a bed. The man opened Khaled’s eyes and stared into them, placed his hand on Khaled’s wrist, then turned around calmly and said, “Condolences.”
The Republic of False Truths Page 19
