The Republic of False Truths

by Alaa Al Aswany

The audience uttered phrases of enthusiastic agreement and General Alwany rose, saying, “I apologise but I have to leave. I wanted to explain things to you myself. You will now be divided into groups—media people and performers, sportspeople, men of religion, and businessmen. Each group will sit with the officer in charge. I hope the results are positive. My fellow officers will submit reports to me and I shall follow everything and meet with you regularly. Goodbye.”

  Everyone stood to bid him farewell and he left, a blend of satisfaction and enthusiasm on his face. Things were going as planned. The conspirators would celebrate Mubarak’s resignation today, but it was the last thing they’d ever celebrate. His office director approached him and whispered, “The Supreme Guide of the Muslim Brotherhood is waiting for Your Excellency in the office.”

  General Alwany looked at his watch. The Supreme Guide had arrived, as was his wont, ten minutes early for his appointment. General Alwany ascertained, with a single glance, that he had heard of the resignation, and perhaps even knew what was required of him. He knew from long experience how efficient the Brothers were at information-gathering. The Supreme Guide was a thin, bald man, around seventy years of age, with a white, trimmed beard. He smiled and asked, “Has Your Excellency prayed the noon prayer?”

  The general smiled and said, “Not yet.”

  “Then let us pray it together, God willing.”

  There were five of them—the general, his office manager, the Supreme Guide, and the latter’s two young assistants. They took off their shoes and made their way to the space set aside for prayer, which consisted of a large fine carpet with the Kaaba woven into it which had been laid down in the corner of the room and oriented to the direction of prayer. The general did not, by nature, like to lead the worshippers but for him to pray behind the Supreme Guide of the Muslim Brotherhood and take him as imam would have had an unacceptable symbolic significance. He led the worshippers in four prostrations and made sure to get up quickly so that the others would understand that time didn’t allow performance of the non-obligatory additional prostrations. In a loud voice he said to his office manager, “I wish to speak with the respected Guide alone.”

  The officer left immediately, and the Supreme Guide nodded to his assistants to go. The general sat down behind his desk, and the Supreme Guide sat in front of it, in an armchair. Now they were face-to-face. Their relationship was simultaneously friendly and guarded, as though they were two sportsmen who had competed against one another in a number of events and learned each other’s abilities, a situation that produced, despite their opposition, a kind of mutual professional respect. The general began by saying, “You are perhaps aware that President Mubarak will be stepping aside.”

  “Rule belongs to God. He gives it to whomever He pleases and takes it from whomever He pleases, and there is no might and no power but in God,” responded the Supreme Guide.

  “The Muslim Brothers have always been a model of the sort of patriotic opposition that places the national interest above political gain.”

  “Praise God for that!”

  “Bear in mind that I have summoned you previously in critical circumstances and that we have cooperated for the sake of the country.”

  “The Brothers have never been, and will never be, slow to respond to the interests of religion and the nation.”

  “Can we depend on you this time?”

  “We have always, through God’s grace, observed any agreements we have made with you.”

  “The country is in a state of unrest. Following Mubarak’s resignation there will be demands for a new constitution. Such a thing will open the doors to a conflict in society whose end only God knows. We will put the matter to the people in a referendum. We want your support so that the Egyptians agree to modify certain articles of the old constitution rather than writing a new one.”

  “We shall cooperate with you for the common good, God willing.”

  “If you prove that you can cooperate well, we will remove any obstacles that may face you in the parliamentary elections.”

  “God reward you!”

  Silence reigned for a moment. Then the Supreme Guide smiled and said, “If you don’t mind, Your Excellency, I’d like to know the names of the members of the committee charged with amending the constitution.”

  “We shall leave the choice of the committee members to you.”

  “God reward you!”

  The major gave him a searching look, as though testing his intentions, and the Supreme Guide smiled and said, “Your Excellency knows that we have kept our side of every agreement we have made with you.”

  Suddenly, the door opened and the major who managed the office appeared. The general gave him an angry look but the young man ignored it, hurrying up to him and then bending over him and whispering, “Dr. Danya is here and wants to see Your Excellency.”

  34

  The spacious living room was furnished in the arabesque style, the balcony was embellished with pots of roses, and the view of the Nile filled all the windows of the façade. Essam Shaalan wasn’t used to seeing his flat during the daylight hours. It was his custom to wake early, breakfast quickly, go to the factory, and not return until evening. Even on Fridays, the day off, he’d sleep on until the late afternoon, under the influence of the late hours that he kept on Thursdays. Now he had time to contemplate the details of the flat at his leisure. He recalled the voice of the officer who had phoned him from National Security: “Listen, Essam. The president has decided to step aside. The announcement will be made this afternoon.”

  “What! How can that be?”

  “It’s just the way it is.”

  “And who will take control of the country?”

  “The Supreme Council of the Armed Forces.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “God protect Egypt! Naturally, there’ll be agitation and chaos, and we’re going to need some time before we can get control of the situation.”

  “Fine. So what am I supposed to do?”

  “It would be better if you don’t go to the factory for the next couple of days.”

  “Would you like me to submit my resignation, sir?”

  “As of now, we have no instructions. Stay home till I phone you.”

  He drank off what remained in the glass at one go. Finding the bottle empty, he got up to get another. If he hadn’t bought two boxes of whisky before the demonstrations broke out, he would have had nothing to drink. The off-licence in Zamalek had closed its doors and his driver, Madany, had stopped coming to work following the disaster that had befallen his son. He opened the new bottle and poured himself the first glass. He always liked to drink it straight up. He’d tell his friends, jokingly, “A bottle of whisky is like a woman. It has a hymen. The first glass is like the first act of sex with a virgin. It has a delicious, unique taste that can never be repeated.”

  He’d spent a whole week in the house, during which he’d tried to see Nourhan. He’d phoned her three times but she always made the excuse that she was too busy at the television station. In that soft voice of hers that always aroused him, she said, “Essam. Darling. Please understand my situation. I can’t leave the station for a second.”

  If this had happened under ordinary circumstances, he would have quarrelled with her, but now he accepted it in a silence that was not without bitterness—if Nourhan wouldn’t stand by her husband at such a time, then when would she support him? But was she really his wife anyway? What value did the marriage have under any circumstances? He’d gone with her to the lawyer’s and signed the customary marriage paper in front of witnesses. Did God need a piece of paper stamped by a lawyer’s office? What an absurdity! He’d put up with all this silly play-acting to satisfy Nourhan, nothing more, nothing less. This morning he’d looked at his face in the mirror and been astonished. Little white hairs were growing in his beard, day after day, and gave hi
m an odd look, as though he were an escapee or a prisoner. The amazing thing was that he’d got used to his isolation. He no longer found it trying. He didn’t feel bored and didn’t long to go out. In fact, in his heart of hearts, strangely enough, he felt the relief that despair engenders. The worst that he could imagine had happened, so he no longer feared anything. It was as though the match had ended with his losing so there was nothing left to worry over. It was time for him to take a rest. It was time for him to drink, chew over events and contemplate them. Each morning, he awoke as usual at seven thirty, took a shower, then put on his track suit, made himself breakfast and coffee, and read the newspaper all the way through. Then he’d turn on the television and open his laptop so that he could follow what was going on blow by blow, on the TV channels and on the net. At noon, he began drinking and would send the doorkeeper out to get something for him to eat. The cook had stopped coming and he could no longer order food over the phone because the security situation prevented the delivery of orders from restaurants. What was going on in Egypt? When would “The End” appear on this wretched film? Sometimes he’d fantasise about a telephone call from the National Security officer informing him that they’d regained control of the country and telling him to go back to the factory. He realised, though, that things were more complicated. What devil had whispered in the Egyptians’ ear and driven them to behave completely contrary to their nature? Egyptians knew nothing about revolution. They didn’t understand it and if they got caught up in it, they quickly deserted it and came to hate it. When he saw on the television people dancing in the streets out of joy at the toppling of Mubarak, he was possessed by rage. He was less upset at losing his position than he was at the self-deception of the Egyptians. He would have liked to write an article in which he’d say, “O Egyptians, read the history of your country and the history of revolutions around the world before you begin driving your youth to their deaths to no avail! There are peoples who are revolutionary by nature, but you, O Egyptians, were not created for revolution and it was not created for you. Not one revolution in your modern history has succeeded. Every revolt of yours against authority has failed and things have got worse.”

  It was a truth he’d learned at great cost. He poured himself a new glass, lay down on the couch, and stared at the ceiling. Suddenly, the peep show began and memories appeared before him in order. Was he drinking to forget, or to remember? Why did these events come back to him now? They’d been buried for so many years that he’d thought they were dead. Why were they being resurrected now, as living witnesses, with the same colours and voices and even the same smells? He beheld the main hall of Cairo University as it had been forty years ago, and saw himself with the leaders of the student movement agreeing with the police generals to break up the sit-in and hand themselves over, along with their colleagues. The early hours of a cold, wintry morning, the surroundings of Cairo University looking like part of a cloudy dream shrouded in fog. The huge police trucks standing in a long line in front of the main gate. The students, men and women, emerging in groups, surrounded by silence, their young faces tense and exhausted. They climbed one by one, in accordance with the agreement, into the police vehicles. Suddenly, a colleague of his at the Faculty of Engineering raised his voice and began singing, “My country, my country, to you my love and my heart.” His voice was sweet and sad. Little by little, the other students joined him until thousands of throats were roaring out the anthem, which sounded like a mighty hymn sung by a sad giant, as though it were the voice of Egypt itself as it mourned for its children, who defended its freedom even as they went to prison. Many students wept and he had seen with his own eyes officers and soldiers averting their faces or looking at the ground to hide their tears.

  His alias in the party had been Comrade Hamdi. The day he was elected to the Central Committee, his friends had thrown him a party at Gamal Saqqa’s house, and they’d drunk until dawn. As he said goodbye to him at the door, the party secretary had told him, “Comrade Hamdi, you bear a great responsibility. Don’t let us down.” Then he’d embraced him and hugged him with a genuine affection made all the warmer by the alcohol. He didn’t think he’d disappointed his comrades. He’d carried out his party responsibilities efficiently and sincerely and hadn’t underperformed in any task allotted to him. He’d been arrested often, sentenced three times, and spent a total of ten years in prison. Imprisonment came with its own traditions, which he’d learned by experience. The first day in detention, there was the “reception party” or “investiture.” The line of prisoners passed between two rows of soldiers, each of whom struck the prisoner in front of him with all his strength, either setting his skin on fire with the leather strap or punching him or kicking him with his army boots. The blow would fall on the prisoner’s head or his belly or his face or his testicles. He’d learned from experience never to stop moving during the investiture. He would receive the blows, pick himself up, and keep running. If he were to stop or fall, they would beat him to death, the blows then being focused and inescapable. His last imprisonment had been his worst. After the usual beating and torture, luck had placed him in the hands of Mohsen El Gazzar, director of Abu Zaabal prison. El Gazzar (“the Butcher”) wasn’t his real name but a nickname that had attached itself to him because of his cruelty. Terrible stories were associated with him of prisoners who lost their minds or died as a result of torture at his hands. Essam was chosen from among his colleagues because he was responsible for the communists in the prison, and when the treatment became too bad, his comrades went on hunger strike. Their demands were clear and just—application of the prison regulations. When the warders entered with the trays of food, Essam said to them, “Take it back. No one is going to eat it.”

  “Why?” he was asked, and Essam shouted, in his gruff voice, so as to let the comrades in the neighbouring cells hear, “Go tell the director that I and my comrades are on hunger strike.”

  The warders returned after a little while and led him to the director’s office. Mohsen El Gazzar was in his forties and looked a lot like a film star—handsome and extremely elegant with, like all great executioners, a soft, gentle voice and a calm face that hid his reactions. He asked Essam in a seemingly friendly way, “Your name?”

  “Essam Abd El Men’em Shaalan.”

  “Your profession?”

  “Engineer.”

  “You’ve called a hunger strike?”

  “I and all those accused in the Secret Communist Organisation case have decided to go on hunger strike. In accordance with the law, I respectfully ask you to notify the prosecutor general.”

  “You want the prosecutor general, just like that, mummy’s boy?”

  “Kindly speak to me with respect.”

  “Upset because I mentioned your whore of a mother?”

  “My mother has more honour than you.”

  Essam uttered the last words in a challenging tone that came over as a little forced. A faint expression of surprise passed rapidly over the Butcher’s face. He may have raised his eyebrows slightly, or moved his lips. Then he gestured to the goons. Those moments came back to Essam now with all their colours and sounds and even the smell of wood and new paint in the Butcher’s office. The goons stripped him of his prison clothes and stood him up in front of them in his underpants. Suddenly the gates of Hell opened. Violent blows rained down on him. There were four of them and they beat him with their hands and feet. At first, he tried to resist the torrent of punches and kicks, but he quickly realised that resistance was pointless and began to protect his head with his hands, which allowed the goons to direct their painful blows at his body. As the beating continued, the office lights began to shake violently before his eyes and he wished he’d faint, if only for a few seconds, from the pain. The beating stopped as suddenly as it had started and Essam tasted the blood from his nose and the wounds on his face. The director laughed and said, as though joking with a friend, “Tell me, Mr. Engineer,
are you a real man?”

  Essam didn’t reply, so the Butcher continued, “If you don’t mind, we’ll have to examine you.”

  This was code, and the goons pounced on him all together, seemingly acting out a scene they had acted out many times. They pulled off his pants and threw him down on his stomach, spreading his legs, while he struggled with all the strength that was left to him, but in vain. Then they began to insert something solid and thick (which, as he learned later, was a thick wooden stick known as “the basha’s rod”) into his backside. He’d never experienced a pain like it—a terrible, mounting pain that made him cry out at the top of his lungs. Later, he could never forgive himself for having moaned and given voice to his pain in long, high-pitched screams. He started to beg and plead. He had never forgiven himself for having cried out, “Please, enough, Mohsen Bey! Let me go! I kiss your feet, but let me go!”

  The memory of those words would pain him more than anything else that happened. His abject pleading to the Butcher had left inside him a feeling of shame that was with him even now. Afterwards, he’d often asked himself, had it really been impossible for him to bear the pain with courage? Why had he screamed and begged the officer for mercy in such a humiliating way? Was he underlining that he was broken, out of abject hope for the Butcher’s pity? He would blame himself for his ignominious breakdown during the torture, and sometimes he’d blame himself for blaming himself: it wasn’t right to blame the victim; that day he had suffered pain no human could bear.

  He couldn’t return to the block on his own feet. The goons carried him, the blood dripping from his anus and leaving a string of spots along the corridor floor. They threw him down onto the concrete floor of the cell, closed the door, and left. The comrades gathered round him and tried to give him aid, using the simple means available. One was a recently graduated doctor and he tried hard to stop the bleeding using cotton wool, gauze, and tincture of iodine that he’d managed to smuggle into the cell. Essam couldn’t sleep on his back or his side, he was in such pain. He lay on his stomach and remained completely silent. His companions tried to talk to him but he didn’t reply, as though what had happened had destroyed his ability to speak, or there was no point in his saying anything. He stayed lying on his stomach and gazing at the dozens of cockroaches that ceaselessly entered and exited the cracks scattered over the wall of the cell. At night, his comrades would sleep, and the familiar sound of their snoring would ring out. Gamal Saqqa approached him, placed his hand on his shoulder, and whispered, “Hang in there, Essam! We are stronger than them.”