by Donia Kamal
“Cool. I’ll be there in a couple of hours. I’ll get ready now, then be on my way.”
I hung up, feeling that I still had someone to talk to or even sit quietly with.
I got dressed and took a taxi, and watched the road all the way as was my habit. We crossed the traffic-laden flyover. Warda sang on the radio.
As much
My love
As the many dark beautiful eyes in our land
I love you
Endless billboards—ghee, underwear, fashions for veiled women, ice cream. Warda sang on.
Neither time
Nor place
Could put our love in the past
Every night that passed without you near me
My soul, my eyes
We were finally close. So much had changed in Heliopolis. New Kamal, where we used to eat fruit salad when we were kids, had turned into a big shop for mobile-phone accessories. The stationery shop where I used to get the things I needed for school was now a fish seller’s.
As much as all that’s been ever said
Of love or patience
I love you
Years I spent awake
Singing your love
I got out of the taxi in front of the house and stood for a few minutes outside the big front garden. I didn’t want to go in and see my aunts. Though I seldom cried, I felt close to tears and didn’t want to end up crying in front of my aunts, who would be curious to know the reason. I stood in front of the house trying to decide what to do. I found my father sitting in his usual garden chair. He saw me and gestured to me to come in. I put my finger to my lips and signaled for him to come out through the garden gate. He laughed and disappeared inside the house for a few minutes, then came back out and opened the big iron gate.
He hugged me tightly. “Are you avoiding your aunts, you naughty girl?”
“I just can’t face anyone. Let’s go find somewhere to sit.”
We walked arm in arm. My father was getting old. He didn’t look it, but he was in his seventies, had a bad heart, and his breathing was irregular. Sometimes I woke up before dawn and found my breathing sounding just like my father’s. We were prone to the same diseases: a weak heart and asthma. We were both chain smokers, or had been; he gave it up a few years ago, though he didn’t mind a cigarette every now and then. But I smoked about forty a day. I enjoyed the burning sensation in my chest. He got upset whenever he saw me smoke. “All your arteries will get blocked and you will die. You’ll see.” To which I replied, laughing, “We will all die, Baba.”
We walked slowly through the streets of Heliopolis, which still retained some of their old charm. An old woman who sold vegetables on the sidewalk smiled at my father and waved at him with a wrinkled hand. “How are you, Semsema?” he said good-humoredly. “You’re looking beautiful today. When are you going to marry me?”
“The most beautiful morning to you, Professor. Behave, will you?” She giggled.
He laughed good-humoredly, then turned to me. “What’s wrong, Nadia? Who’s the son of a bitch making you sad?”
“Remember the guy I told you about? Ali?”
“Of course I do. The boy you’re in love with. Did he turn out to be a jerk?”
I was annoyed. “Baba, don’t trivialize things. I’m feeling seriously shitty, OK?”
He said, with the same tenderness I was used to since I was an infant, “Listen, Nadia, I told you ages ago: When you love a man, stay with him. If he’s an asshole and you love him, stay with him. Whether he’s a king or a beggar. If you love him, stay. When you stop loving him, leave. It’s simple and uncomplicated. Do you love him or not?”
I hesitated. “Yes. I love him. Look, I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
“If you’re not sure, then you don’t love him. Do you remember when you told me about Zayn? How pissed off I was?”
“How could I forget? You wore a permanent frown whenever I saw you.”
“Yes, because I knew you loved him. And I knew that you would have to leave him one day while you were still in love with him, or rather that he would leave you. Not because he was a bad man, but because of the circumstances. The thing that worried me and upset me most was that you really loved him. It was obvious. And your heartbreak was going to match that love. That’s what I feared.”
I looked at our feet as we walked. “Yes, Baba. I really loved Zayn—and I still do, by the way. But that’s over and now I’m thinking about Ali.”
“See—you can’t even say that you love Ali.”
“I need him.”
“He’s the one who needs you, you silly girl. Why do you do this to yourself, Nadia? Ali doesn’t suit you. He’s not mature enough. Zayn didn’t suit you either. But he was too mature.”
“Let’s not bring age into it. It’s lame. Also, those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. I’m not saying anything.”
He replied seriously: “I’m not talking about age. Nadia, you never go into anything with your eyes closed. But you’re always worrying about others. You’re always carrying the burden of some man. Why don’t you find a man who carries your burden?”
“Really, Baba? It’s as if you don’t know me. I’d never be comfortable with a man who takes care of me.”
He said sharply, “You only think so because you keep getting involved with half-men!”
I laughed. “That’s exactly what Radwa said.”
“OK, forget all that. What is it that’s bothering you about Ali? Obviously you don’t want to leave him, so what is the problem exactly? Is it something that can be fixed?”
His breathing started to sound labored. I pulled him into a nearby restaurant where we often had lunch. We sat in the outdoor area. I ordered a steak and he ordered steamed vegetables. I joked, “So which is better, this or the veggies I make?”
“Your food is better because you cook with your heart. They’re just doing a job.”
I went quiet for a moment, then said, “You know what the problem is? It’s that I know he will leave me. I know he’s not fully with me. I’m just a novelty that he’s trying out. I know that, but I don’t want to be the one who leaves first. I want him to experience life to the fullest. That’s what he needs, and it’s his right to need this.”
My father smiled. “You have to stop acting like you’re everyone’s mother. The last person I saw you treat normally was Radwa. Other than her, you treat people like they were your children. Ali is not your child. Only he is responsible for his life experiences. You can’t put yourself and your feelings at risk so he can grow up and become a man. That’s just ridiculous. I’m telling you this will hurt you badly. And then I will have to kill him.”
“Look at you, tough guy!” I laughed out loud. “No, I want him to have this experience. As you said, he doesn’t suit me, but I don’t want to leave him. Let him see this through, and I promise I’ll try not to get too hurt.”
He patted my hand and said, “Live your life, Nadia. Time flies and our lives pass by so fast. You must have heard this before, but it’s real. We blink and find ourselves old. Live your life and don’t let anyone imprison you in their issues.”
“Yes, sir! Now let’s eat before the food gets cold.”
We finished our plates and went on with the day—another day on which I did not shed a tear.
25
Radwa always hated politics. She only talked in the most cursory way about what was happening in the country. Of course we shared the same political beliefs, but she always thought it was futile.
“It’s too messed up, Nadia,” she would say. “There’s no point in trying.”
I used to find this “no point” declaration extremely annoying. I heard it from so many people around me. So many had views about the hopelessness of the situation, but from Radwa it made me feel like I personally had failed. Her bitterness pained me.
Galal was exactly the opposite. He was more politicized than me and Radwa. So was Rima. They both believed there was a point in try
ing; that of course there was a point in trying. Layla stayed on the fence, hesitant and confused. She wanted nothing to do with politics. She was the oldest of our group and the furthest from street politics. She just thought, “For my son’s sake there must be hope. I can’t accept that there isn’t.” As for me, I tended toward pessimism. When I thought about things rationally, I found myself on the same wavelength as Galal. I could see promising signs. But when I thought about “us” as examples of the people who live in this country, I found us lacking. We weren’t able to see anything through. We and most of those around us in the square belonged to a social class that didn’t really have to work for anything. I think that if we had done a survey of everyone in the square, we would have found that the majority had parents who had worked in the Gulf in the seventies, during the ugly days of open-door economic policies, only for the sake of returning with a small car, an apartment in the suburbs, and a few gadgets. We, their children, didn’t have to work for anything. Our lives were a mediocre compromise. Our demands were a mediocre compromise. We were mediocre at our jobs. We were not at the top of the ladder, like the big shots that my father often included in the bastards category, but neither did we have to struggle to put food on the table like those who might as well be living on a different planet—those whom we discussed with compassion, then forgot as we smoked our imported cigarettes.
We did nothing with our hands. We didn’t produce anything. Our achievements were limited, as were our ambitions. We never went hungry, and when our salaries were depleted toward the end of the month, we bought local cigarettes and ate at cheap curbside sandwich shops. Our entire lives were a mediocre compromise. So I didn’t understand the secret behind this uprising—or perhaps I should say ‘revolution,’ to avoid being chastised by Galal. This was not how I imagined a revolution. I didn’t think revolutions were started by those who had mediocre lives, but by those who had no lives to begin with. Maybe this revolution was the first exception.
I wasn’t pessimistic so much as surprised. The exaggerated civility of the square; the sudden good manners that seemed to have mysteriously descended on the middle classes. Why weren’t we—Layla, Rima, I, and other women—being harassed? Sexual harassment was a norm that, every day, men on the streets treated as an acquired right. All of a sudden a flood of good manners was sweeping everyone along. It was as if an invisible airplane were spraying the square with a magic potion that made people nice to each other and made men respect women. I received this with suspicion and apprehension. I heard other girls say, “Wow, the revolution is changing people for the better,” and I replied, “I’m not convinced. After ten years or more of being groped in public transport and hounded by men in the street, I don’t buy this manners-utopia thing.” They’d look at me in disgust and pronounce me bleak and unable to see the good side of life.
I can’t deny that through the two weeks of the sit-in, the square really maintained itself admirably. Men and women were constantly cleaning, and a high degree of organization reigned. There was a corner for everything: newspapers, bloggers, food and drink, making signs and posters, so many of which used the power of sarcasm to attack the regime. There was a place for everyone. Layla, Rima, Galal, and I were almost always together. Galal left us at intervals to attend meetings and discussions, and when he returned he was sometimes quiet and downcast, but more often lively and optimistic. We sat in our place on the sidewalk and waited—I, despairingly, for the moment I anticipated when the military was going to attack and shoot us all dead; Rima and Layla for the fall of the regime; and Galal doing all he could to keep morale up.
There were so many rumors. Some were never verified even after the sit-in was over. Most revolved around stories of people being arrested as they left the square, military police cars that picked up demonstrators and took them in for interrogation. There was also the recurring rumor of trucks carrying state-hired thugs approaching the square. We would suddenly see people running toward one of the square’s entrances and shouting, “Watch out! The thugs are coming!” But after the running and panic, nothing would happen. It was true, though, that many—not all—of those leaving the square were arrested, but the rumors were exaggerated. And in those days I decided to be an ostrich anyway, my head deep in the sand. Anything that I did not see, if I was asleep or away from the square, was not real. That was the easiest way to face the stress.
On the third day, my father decided that he would spend the night in the square. This made me anxious, because of his age and health. But arguing with him about it would have only stressed us both out. I scanned the square, looking for a relatively safe spot for both of us to settle for the night, and told my comrades that tonight was an emergency; my father was joining us and they all had to be ready to receive him. Galal reassured me with a pat on the back. Layla and Rima smiled. God help us!
My father had a victorious smile on his face all the way to the square. He didn’t say a word, just looked out of the window of the taxi, and his smile got wider and wider. I fidgeted. I kept taking things out of my bag and putting them back in. I had brought a blanket and one of those airplane pillows. I couldn’t carry an extra blanket, so I would use my coat. I had his medication, a bottle of water, and a small plastic container with low-salt cheese sandwiches in it. The kind of food being sold in the square would have raised his blood pressure.
Once in, we embarked on the customary tour around the peripheries, stopping whenever we met friends. He bumped into many of his friends that day, and every five minutes I would hear the same comment: “What are you doing here? What about your health?” To which he confidently replied, “I had to be here. After all those years, I couldn’t possibly miss the revolution.”
I took him by the arm and we circled the big central island. He paused every now and then to watch, from behind his glasses, the young people holding their signs. Many of the slogans were comical. There were very young children carried on their fathers’ shoulders and shouting revolutionary chants in their childish voices. I generally don’t like the idea of getting children involved in politics, but the square’s children seemed different. We were all wondering how these children would grow up after having experienced a revolution. We walked around with big smiles on our faces. A band was playing Shaykh Imam songs on a makeshift stage. I motioned to my father to sit for a bit. We sat down together on the ground. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He was looking steadily at the stage, his eyes not moving.
Egypt is the suns rising from prisons
The blossoming gardens in our blood
I saw his eyes tear up. He was probably being taken back in time, remembering the sixties when he may have sung the same song with his comrades at al-Wahat Prison. Perhaps he was told to stop singing by a prison guard and received a lashing or two if he refused. But this was a different place and a different time. He would not have been bitter or resentful because of the injustice he suffered or the years he spent in exile. He definitely wasn’t begrudging these young people their revolution. It might have felt strange, but it wouldn’t have made him bitter like it did for many of his generation. That night I was certain that my father was happy and expectant, like me and millions of others.
We lay down on the ground to sleep, he on the small blanket I had brought, I on my coat. I saw him close his eyes with a big smile on his face, directed at the sky. For the first time in years, I didn’t hear the wheezing sound coming from his chest; nor did I worry about the irregular quivers of his heart.
26
I got up early to cook breakfast for Ali. When I was little, my father used to let the fuul beans soak in water from morning till sundown. After sunset he would go into the kitchen, dice one onion, two garlic cloves, and one tomato, and put everything with the fuul into its cooking pot, the qidra. He’d cover the ingredients with water and place the pot on low heat on the stove. I would sit close by so I could smell the aroma as it filled the house. Hours later, possibly around midnight, he would switch off the stove a
nd empty the pot into a big bowl. The fuul had to be tasted, fresh from this complicated process, which at the time I thought was simple. My father handled the ingredients with the accuracy of a scientist—he would measure everything and tell me that one rogue milliliter could spoil the dish. He instilled in me a respect for the process of making fuul. We would sit together to dip baladi bread in a shared bowl of fuul, mixed with diced fresh tomatoes, corn oil, cumin, and maybe some crushed garlic. My father was also the one who taught me to add white cheese to fuul and mash it in with a fork. I thought everyone ate it like that, but years later discovered it was a custom that belonged only to us.
I never dared to slow-cook fuul at home. It was my father’s territory and I couldn’t compete. A packet of dried fuul has a permanent place in my kitchen cupboard, but I can never bring myself to use it.
I wondered what I should make for Ali’s breakfast.
We usually got up together in the morning after a quick kiss and maybe a morning cuddle. When I heard the water in the shower, I knew that I had exactly twenty-five minutes. There was no time to think. I squeezed some orange juice and put the bread on the stove. I would time myself by putting one song on loop and listening to it five times until Ali finished his morning shower, by which point I would have put cheese on the table and quickly fried some eggs, adding tomatoes, green pepper, and lots of onion, which he really liked. Ali came out fully dressed, and I got the brush to brush his long hair. It was longer than mine then, especially after the haircut I had gotten, based on an ill-advised request from him. He drank the juice, ate quickly, put his shoes on, and went to stand by the door.
I went over to him and looked him over once, twice, three times. I pushed my hands inside his sleeves and pulled out the cuffs of his shirt, adjusted them, and smoothed the hem of his jacket. I looked at him again and gave him one last kiss. He gave me a hurried hug and left. As he closed the door of the elevator, I closed my front door. The song would be in its eighth and final loop.
