The Republic of False Truths

by Alaa Al Aswany

  When he saw Gamal’s loving, pitying face, he could not contain himself and burst into tears, repeating in a low voice, “I’m done, Gamal. I was so terribly humiliated. Who are we suffering such humiliation for, Gamal?”

  He would repeat the question often thereafter. After they’d both left prison, they would spend nights in endless discussion. They would smoke and drink and each would stick to his opinion. Gamal still believed in the cause, but Essam’s view was unequivocal: “You cannot help a people who do not want to help themselves. I’ve been imprisoned and tortured and my self-respect has been demeaned, for what? How many Egyptians remember the sacrifices of the socialists?”

  One night, they had drunk a lot and the discussion between them had become so heated it had turned into a quarrel. At that point, Essam stood in the middle of the room and said to Gamal, “Have you heard of Vera Zasulich?”

  “No.”

  “Vera was a young socialist in Russia in 1879. When she heard that General Trepov, the governor general of the city of St. Petersburg, tortured prisoners, she went to his office and shot him. However, she wounded him and didn’t kill him. They arrested her, and when they asked her at the investigation if there was any enmity between her and Trepov, she said, ‘I don’t know Trepov, but I know that he tortures prisoners and I decided to kill him because no one should be able to mistreat people with such deep confidence in their ability to escape punishment.’

  “With this sentence, Vera was transformed into a national hero. Tens of thousands of Russians demonstrated in support of her every day. Can you believe it? Even children demonstrated in their thousands in front of the courthouse, carrying a large banner on which was written ‘Thank You, Vera, For Defending Our Dignity!’

  “Faced with such extreme pressure from Russian public opinion, the court found her innocent, even though she’d confessed. After she was released, the police tried to re-arrest her, but the masses defended her and prevented her from being taken into custody.”

  Gamal listened in silence, while Essam continued excitedly, “Do we have anyone in Egypt like Vera Zasulich? Do we have a public opinion that protects political activists? Do we have any awareness of the importance of the dignity of man? We have nothing. It follows that no amount of activism can lead to any outcome but the loss of our dignity and of our future.”

  Gamal tried to respond, but Essam was too carried away, and he yelled in his friend’s face, “Listen to what Vera said: ‘I decided to kill him because no one should be able to mistreat people with such deep confidence in their ability to escape punishment.’ ”

  Essam bowed his head in silence for a moment, then said in a trembling voice, “I was tortured and my honour was demeaned and every one of those who tortured me has escaped punishment and not one person has defended me.”

  Why was Essam remembering all this now? What drove him to drag up the past? The revolution that he hadn’t expected, or the worrying situation he was living through, or because he had drunk too much? He was recalling these painful scenes at leisure, as though he found some pleasure in torturing himself. It occurred to him that he was reliving the events of his life because the mistake he’d made was being repeated. Here were the same young people, like Mazen Saqqa, demonstrating and holding sit-ins and being arrested for the sake of a people that couldn’t care less about what they did. What a waste! Here was poor Madany, losing his son who was his pride and joy and his only hope in life. He drank what was left in his glass and suddenly felt dizzy. He remembered that he suffered from diabetes. The doctor had warned him about drinking too much alcohol because he might end up going into a coma. He loved life and wanted to live a long time. If he had to die, he’d prefer to drink, so that he could die quietly, with no pain, no pity, no impotence, and no burdens to be borne by those he loved. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. He got up with difficulty. He was completely drunk. Who could be calling? He remembered the security collapse. It could be one of those prisoners who had escaped from gaol. He thought of a newspaper headline: “Bellini Cement Factory Manager Murdered by Persons Unknown.” He tried to stop himself from staggering and cautiously approached the door, then looked through the peephole and saw Fabio, the owners’ representative, standing outside. Quickly, he opened the door and said in English, “Hello, Mr. Fabio!”

  Fabio smiled and said, “Sorry to come without an appointment. I phoned you many times but you didn’t answer.”

  Essam welcomed him, apologised for being inappropriately dressed, and then poured him a glass. Fabio sat in the armchair facing the couch, took a sip of his whisky, and said, “When was the last time you were at the factory?”

  “A week ago.”

  “Have you heard what happened?”

  Essam was trying hard to recover his concentration from the muddle of his intoxication. He stared at Fabio’s face, which had darkened. Fabio went on in an angry voice, “There’s a big problem at the factory. I’ve come so we can find a solution.”

  35

  My darling Mazen,

  Yes, I love you. I’m no longer embarrassed by my feelings. I feel liberated. I’ve become a new person. I shall never forget the moment when they announced Mubarak’s resignation and you hugged me in front of everybody. I wasn’t embarrassed. I felt your body shaking with excitement, and your tears wet my face. I shall never forget the millions of people shouting and singing and crying with joy, all over Egypt. I shall never forget how, the day following Mubarak’s fall, the young men and women swept the streets and repainted the pavements. See how smart and civilised our revolution is! Did it ever happen before in history that the people rose up, overthrew the dictator, and then swept the streets? I spoke with a lot of the young people who were doing the sweeping and they told me, “Egypt is our country now, and it has to be clean.”

  I shall never forget those tremendous moments, Mazen. How lucky I am, in you and in the revolution! Can you believe I even found my mother was happy? She kissed me and said, “Mubarak was a tyrant. He went too far and got what was coming to him. Enough said.”

  Even my father, who used to avoid me altogether so that we wouldn’t quarrel, phoned me from Saudi Arabia and said, “Congratulations, Asmaa! It’s over, right, and Mubarak’s fallen? Please, think about your future now.”

  The big surprise was at the school. Do you remember the journalist, Hisham, who did an interview with us at the Enough! movement building and published it in Al-Ahram? They’d read the interview at the school and seen my picture with our colleagues. On the first day after the half-term holiday, I went to the school and was amazed at the excitement and joy. The moment I entered the classroom, more than one of the girls said, “Congratulations, Miss Asmaa!”

  I started explaining the lesson, as usual, but I felt that there was something new about the girls, as though they were taking in what I said in a different way, as though they’d been weighed down by chains and were now free, as though they wanted to talk about what had happened but were waiting for me to start. I found myself asking them, “What do you think about the revolution?”

  They began calling out and competing with one another to tell me how glad they were that Mubarak had fallen. Then I asked them, “Which of you took part in the revolution?”

  A quarter of the girls raised their hands, exactly the same percentage as the revolutionaries among the rest of the people.

  I told them, “Each one of you who took part in the revolution should be proud and tell their children that they shared in the building of a decent, clean, new Egypt.”

  The moment the first class finished, the janitor came to summon me to the headmaster’s office. There I found Mrs. Manal, who hugged me and kissed me, while Mr. Abd El Zaher welcomed me warmly, saying, “If it weren’t a sin, I’d kiss you, Asmaa! I’m so proud of you and of all the young people of your generation.”

  I was slow to react, I was so surprised. How could Mr. Abd El Zaher, who had r
eferred me for investigation and treated me insultingly and unfairly, have changed so fast? “Thank you,” I said. “I didn’t do anything. The credit should go to the Egyptian people.”

  Mr. Abd El Zaher smiled and said, “No, the credit (once, of course, God, Glorious and Mighty, has received His) should go to your generation. You have done what my generation could not. You are wonderful, fearless young people for whom nothing is impossible.”

  I looked at Mrs. Manal and found her smiling at me affectionately. I didn’t know what to say. I was very moved. I made an effort not to cry. Mr. Abd El Zaher invited me to sit down, ordered me a cup of tea, and said, “I asked you to come so that I could tell you something. In the past, we have had our problems with one another. Please understand me. I’m not afraid of my superiors. I’m not afraid of the undersecretary at the ministry or even the minister. I fear only Our Lord, Glorious and Mighty, whom I take into account in everything I do. It is this sense of responsibility that sometimes makes me overly strict in my dealings with the teachers.”

  “I did nothing wrong, Headmaster,” I said.

  He smiled affectionately and said, “May God forgive the past, Asmaa! I want us to start a new page.”

  Before I could reply, Mrs. Manal said, “I too would like to open a new page with you, Asmaa. Our Lord alone knows how much I love you and think of you as my daughter.”

  Naturally, I thanked them, saying, “All of Egypt is opening a new page.”

  Everything really has changed. The dictator was stifling Egypt. When he was overthrown, all Egyptians were liberated. I’m writing to you from home, having just come back from the school, and I have lots of questions begging for an answer. How could the headmaster’s and Mrs. Manal’s attitude towards me have changed so amazingly? Is the revolution changing people’s natures? Is it giving them back their confidence in themselves and causing them to review their mistakes? While waiting for your answer,

  All my love, Asmaa

  P.S. I know of course that you’re busy at the factory. I want to see you at the earliest opportunity. Phone me an hour ahead and I’ll wait for you at the Zahret El Bustan café.

  36

  The workers gathered in the courtyard of the factory at 8 a.m., when the first shift changed, and began congratulating one another on the fall of Mubarak. Then they elected a four-man committee, one of whose members was Mazen Saqqa, and charged it with full supervision of the factory and negotiation with the Italian management to fulfil the workers’ demands. The day passed normally, and the second shift changed, and then the third. At four in the morning, Essam Shaalan arrived unexpectedly at the factory. The car didn’t enter by the main gate but by Gate 4, at the back, then went round behind the trees and only then arrived at the administration building. There was a man in the front seat of the car, next to the driver, while in the back seat sat Essam, with another person, who was sitting next to a large metal box resembling an air-conditioning unit. The moment the car stopped, Essam jumped out, opened the office with his key, and went in quickly, while the two men got down, pulled out the black metal machine, and carried it into the office. The driver then drove off. Essam turned on the lights, bolted the office door, and the two men got to work. They set the machine in the middle of the large room and connected it to the electricity. It was a large paper shredder. Essam took off his jacket and began putting documents into the machine, which shredded them fast, expelling them in little bits at the bottom, where the two men had placed a large black rubbish bag. Essam started taking papers out of the drawers of his desk, out of the glass-fronted cupboard, and from a small desk located in the corridor. He knew the documents by heart. He had only to glance at one to decide its fate. An hour passed and he was still shredding documents. His attention was attracted by shouting and noise outside. He told the two men, “Keep working whatever happens.”

  He fed the machine a new file but shortly after received a telephone call and then went towards the door and looked cautiously through the peephole. Then he pulled back the bolt and opened the door a little, and Mazen Saqqa walked slowly into the middle of the room. He looked exhausted. Essam shook his hand and said, “How are you, Mazen? Congratulations on the success of the revolution. God willing, things in the country will go better with you people in charge.”

  Mazen didn’t reply. He observed the shredding of the papers, then looked at Essam anxiously and said, “The workers phoned me and asked me to meet with you, sir.”

  Essam smiled irritably and said sarcastically, “All’s well, I hope?”

  “The workers are opposed to the shredding of the papers.”

  “I have the right to do what I want with my own papers.”

  “These aren’t personal papers. They’re official papers and they concern the workers.”

  “Concern the factory, you mean. I have instructions from the owners’ representative to shred the papers.”

  Suddenly, outside, a cry arose, and Mazen said anxiously, “The workers are in revolt and things could get dangerous.”

  Essam smiled and shouted in a voice that made Mazen think he might be drunk, “No one threatens Essam Shaalan, Mazen! Understand?”

  Outside, the workers’ cries grew louder: “Essam! Shaalan! You’re a coward!” and “If you’re a man, come out and face us!”

  Suddenly, he heard the sound of breaking glass and a brick fell onto the floor of the office. Some workers had left the night shift, leaving their colleagues working so that the factory wouldn’t come to a halt, and many workers had been summoned from their homes. All the spotlights had been turned on and they emitted a brilliant light. The workers had surrounded the administrative building and started chanting slogans against Essam Shaalan, after which they had begun throwing bricks and the glass in all the windows had shattered. Mazen went out to them, and they gathered around him, shouting excitedly, “We saw him take a paper shredder in. We can’t let him get rid of the documents.”

  “Those papers are sure to have stuff that management doesn’t want us to see.”

  “Of course. The proof is he came at four in the morning.”

  In a loud voice, Mazen said, “Everyone! The papers have been shredded, it’s over. We can’t get them back, and there are lots of papers we prevented him from shredding and saved. Please, no more brick-throwing. The things that are getting broken are your property.”

  Voices rose in opposition, so Mazen said, “What do you want Essam Shaalan for?”

  A worker shouted, “We want to keep him prisoner in the office till the administration fulfils our demands.”

  Mazen replied calmly, “That’s a bad idea. You workers aren’t thugs. The country has changed and the factory is in your hands.”

  Excitedly, the worker replied, “If we keep Essam a prisoner in the office, management will do what we want.”

  “First, Essam Shaalan is no longer of any importance to management, and second, if we do what you say, we will have committed the crime of illegally detaining a citizen. Plus, what’s the point of holding him? The factory is under our control and we shall take our rights in full.”

  With these words, Mazen left the workers to their discussions and returned to the office, where he found the two men who had accompanied Essam in a state of panic. One of them cried to him in a tearful voice, “Please, Mazen Bey. I’ve got nothing to do with all of this. I came to help Essam Bey and I want to leave right now.”

  “You’re afraid of a few kids?” Essam shouted at him. “Be a man!”

  Then he paced to the other side of the room and returned and shouted, looking at Mazen, “My name is Essam Shaalan. With my history, I cannot accept being taken prisoner by a bunch of rabble.”

  He turned to the door to leave, but Mazen held him by the shoulder and said, “Essam, sir, if you hold me responsible for your safety, please don’t go out there. The workers are angry and anything could happen.”

 
The warning had its effect on Essam, and he sat down on the couch and lit a cigarette. Then he picked up his telephone and said in a low voice, “I’m going to contact the army.”

  In a short while, the factory had filled with military police. They spread out, with their well-muscled bodies, military uniforms, and distinctive red berets. The workers’ chanting grew louder, as though they were taking the soldiers as witnesses to their demands. An officer with the rank of captain entered the office. He shook hands with everyone and apparently grasped the situation, because he didn’t ask for any explanation. He just smiled and asked Essam, “Where have you parked the car, sir?”

  “Behind the building,” Essam said.

  The officer contacted someone and informed him where the car was, and after a few minutes he received a phone call, opened the door, and poked his head through it as though to make double sure that his men were in place outside. Then he made a sweeping gesture with his arm and said, “Please. Come with me.”

  The privates formed a cordon around Essam and the two men, and the officer walked ahead of them, with Mazen behind. Soldiers formed a line the whole way, facing the workers and creating a safe passage, though the scene looked almost like a religious rite for the punishment of sinners. Essam looked challengingly at the workers as he walked and the latter hurled insulting comments at him, such as “Bye, thief!” and “If we see you in the factory again, we’ll break your legs,” and “Say hello to your master Fabio, you Italian lapdog!”