by Donia Kamal
My road takes me away from yours
I call to you, I love you
I turned it off and smoked my seventh cigarette, to start my day without him.
There was a lark living in the tree opposite my house. I heard it every morning, and sometimes at dusk. I could almost make out words in its song, of my own invention naturally. I liked that lark a lot. It was sad like Ali; maybe the story it recounted was Ali’s. Both of them had soft and delicate voices. I never saw the lark, even when I stuck my entire upper body outside the window to try to locate it. Just as whenever I sought Ali out, I didn’t find him. I knew he was there but I couldn’t see or touch him. Sometimes I admitted to myself that I didn’t really want to capture the lark or Ali. It was enough for me to hear the sad song floating to me from the tree. I could enjoy their presence, so near and yet so far.
27
Zayn set a high bar for my definition of love. His presence in my life was both exciting and grounding. I didn’t think of beginnings and endings and the usual complications of relationships; I didn’t think about the future. Zayn’s existence gave me all the peace I needed, as well as all the madness. I sometimes went to sit with him at a downtown coffeehouse. I would be carrying my small bag, with my university books and papers.
“Read me a poem you like, Nadia. Something close to your heart.”
I got flustered. Most of the poetry I liked back then was in English, and I didn’t trust my ability to translate it. In the end I settled on Coleridge, from “The Ancient Mariner,” an old favorite of mine.
Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.
He listened to me with kindness, holding my hand in his. The sadness in Zayn’s eyes was real. He had been sad since his wife died. They didn’t have children and he never remarried. He told me he had waited for years, until we met; that his life had passed by while he waited for me. He said he knew that something was going to happen, that he would meet this girl, and that through her, life would bring him solace. My heart beat wildly as he held my hand and told me I was his sparkling girl, his muse, the unsuspecting weaver of his dreams. Zayn didn’t want anything from me, except to love me. It was enough, and not just at that moment; as I later realized, his love was enough to last me for the rest of my life. Years later, I met Ali and fell in love with him. Then I met other men. My heart was broken more than once, but Zayn’s love always saw me through those disappointments.
Galal too didn’t love me like Zayn did. But I believed him in that moment. I just wasn’t excited; Zayn had used up my capacity for excitement. I listened to Galal’s poised words with a calm familiarity. I’ve always believed him. He was honest, a revolutionary, and was not like the others. He was not a liar or a fraud. And he was charming. We all loved Galal and needed him. He was like our collective child. Rima would ferociously defend him whenever I was angered by his occasionally childish behavior. Layla would say that he was foolish and reckless and that we must all look after him. Deep down I knew that each of us had some story with Galal, but that we had long since left those stories behind in order to form our uncomplicated friendship circle.
I didn’t know the details of the other stories, but I knew mine. I knew that Galal would find creative ways to make me feel like I was one of a kind, that there was no one like me and no one had ever gotten this close to his heart. I felt an intense happiness—that perhaps didn’t always show on my face—whenever Galal told me that he loved me. I would listen to him talk about the struggles and honesty of the poor, and I’d believe him. I recognized these words, as they had been my father’s since I was a child. I believed everything that Galal told me about the oppressed classes. During those moments when, lying on my back on the ground in the large square, I felt despair, I only had to steal a look at Galal’s eyes and see the hope pouring out of them to feel reassured again.
He knew that we stood in the same corner, tuned to the same wavelength. I would be filled with enthusiasm when I heard his voice chanting. If his voice sounded downcast, I felt myself on the edge of depression. My feelings toward Galal were unusual and confusing. He told me he loved me and said the same to a dozen other women, and yet I believed him and never accused him of lying or being unfaithful. We never entered into a real relationship where we would share our feelings and lives, but there was plenty of unrestrained affection between us. Even years later, I knew that Galal never hoped for more than a kiss from me, and that I would always be satisfied with a warm hug that was our consolation for everything we did not accomplish.
28
Communication networks were finally back after a five-day shutdown. Networks were reopened following a cheap, emotionally manipulative presidential speech. Not everyone was manipulated, though. Immediately after the speech, the square exploded with anger and resentment, tinged with ridicule. The square was powered by an innate honesty that filtered out lies from facts. Leaving the square exposed you to frustration and despair. I sometimes felt that it fell beyond the realms of geography and history, even as it was closely bound to both. It was like a fictional chronotope in Bakhtin’s sense: a standalone whole that, while influencing external events, is hardly affected by them.
When I listened to the presidential statement with Rima, Galal, and Layla from within the square, we felt nothing but anger. When I remember our reactions now, they appear to me almost exaggerated. Rima and I screamed, “All they do is lie! How could anyone believe this son of a bitch? They want to trick us!” After the statement, I decided to go home, where my father was waiting. I needed a hot shower and a few hours’ sleep on my comfy sofa. I was utterly exhausted and had to rest. As soon as it was morning, I kissed Rima and Layla and Galal, and raced home.
My father received me with his usual enthusiasm. “Phones are back. Is yours working?”
“Yes, probably. I just need to charge it.”
“What brought you home?” he asked apprehensively.
“Do you not want me back?” I joked.
“Looks like you got bored.”
“Come on, Baba. I’m just tired and need a shower and some rest. I’ll sleep for a couple of hours, then go back. Come with me if you want. I think it’s safe.”
I took all my clothes off and stuck them in the washing machine. I stood under the hot water and watched it turn black as it poured off me. There were layers of dirt on my body, and possibly insects too, as I found small bites in various places. It was perhaps the longest shower I’d ever had. I came out of the bathroom to find my father sitting in front of the TV. He seemed worried.
“Don’t wake me up at all for at least three hours, OK? I really need a good sleep. Don’t wake me up unless there’s a disaster.”
“I don’t see how you’ll manage to sleep.”
“I’ll manage, Baba. I’m callous like that. And if I don’t sleep now, I won’t be able to go back.”
I almost passed out. Less than an hour later I was shaken awake.
“Nadia, Nadia! Wake up and see what’s happening!”
Still in a sleepy trance, I said, “Baba, have mercy! Didn’t I tell you to not wake me up?”
“Get up! There is a disaster happening as we speak. Come see what’s on the TV.”
I opened my eyes to an absurd scene on TV. For a few seconds I thought it was part of a dream, or rather a nightmare: a handful of camels and horses galloping through the square, while protestors tried to stop them from advancing. The riders pushed the animals on to run over protestors. There was a lot of screaming and blood.
“Who are they?” I yelled. “And how did they get into the square? Isn’t the army guarding the entrances?”
My father answered bitterly: “What army? It’s a conspiracy. The military tanks let them pass. It will turn into a massacre.”
I started talking to myself, searching for my mobile phone. “Shit, shit, shit! Camels and horses? Has it come to that? What i
s this, the Middle Ages? They’re attacking us with camels and horses, the sons of bitches!”
When I finally found my phone, I anxiously called Galal, who answered after the fourth ring. His voice was calm, but in the background I heard a fearful noise that sounded like drums, or banging on metal.
“Hi, Nadia. I’m fine, don’t worry.”
“What do you mean, fine? Don’t lie to me! What’s going on? Is anyone hurt?”
“No, my love, I’m telling you I’m fine. And Rima and Layla are fine too.”
“OK, I’ll get dressed and come over.”
He replied hastily, “No, don’t come now. Wait until things calm down. It’s not safe now.
“I’m coming,” I said sharply. “I’ll call you when I’m on the way. Keep your phone on. What’s that noise?”
“We’re banging on the metal fences. To scare them away. So they’ll think there are more of us.”
I asked him to take care of himself and ended the call. To myself I murmured, “Don’t die, Galal. Please don’t die.” I got dressed in a hurry and heard my father say, “Wait for an hour until things calm down. You won’t be able to enter the square now at all.”
I sat beside him in front of the TV. There were dozens, or perhaps hundreds, of people standing around the entrances and throwing rocks at the protestors on the other side. The military tanks were in the middle. There were almost no officers or soldiers to be seen. They hid inside their tanks and didn’t interfere at all. With unbelievable callousness, they were letting a massacre happen before their eyes. The battle was getting ugly. The protestors managed to control the animals. At the same time, some of the thugs climbed to the tops of the buildings that surrounded the square and started to throw Molotov cocktails and firebombs down. All the while, the battle with rocks was continuing on the peripheries. Dozens of people were injured. TV channels transmitted what was happening live.
I heard my father’s labored breathing and tried to reassure him. “Don’t worry, things will soon calm down. Please think of your blood pressure. We have enough trouble as it is.”
He regarded me in silence and then turned to follow the horror show on TV.
I called Galal again, but this time he didn’t answer. I felt my chest tighten. I called Rima and Layla, but they didn’t answer either. I was dressed and ready to go, but it would be impossible to get into the square now. It was surrounded from all sides. I had to go. There was no other way. I wasn’t going to sit around feeling helpless.
My father’s face went pale when, around seven p.m., I announced that I was going. I couldn’t wait longer than that. He didn’t try to stop me. “Take good care of yourself. If it’s too dangerous, turn back, or go to one of your friends who live close to the square. Keep the phone on. I’ll call you. Don’t you dare not answer! If you don’t answer, I’ll think something’s happened to you, and then you’ll be sorry!”
“OK, OK! Don’t worry.”
I took off for the square. No taxis wanted to take me there. I decided to walk over from the direction of Qasr al-Nil. People I didn’t know on the street waved to me to turn back. From a distance I saw thugs occupying Qasr al-Nil Bridge. I turned around and went through Abd al-Moneim Riyad, where I walked confidently among the thugs. I called Galal and told him I was nearing the Abd al-Moneim Riyad entrance. He screamed down the phone: “Have you lost your mind? You’re coming from the worst direction! Go back if you can! Come through Qasr al-Aini.” But before he finished, I had arrived at the armored vehicle that blocked the entrance. I saw strange things that hadn’t been there when I left. There were metal barricades where the protestors stood. I turned my back on the unfriendly enemy lines and walked toward them. I was stopped by a young army officer who was covered in dust and looked exhausted. I thought I could make out a shoe print on his face, and I could definitely recognize a look of hysteria.
“What are you doing here?” he said in panic. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to the square,” I replied haughtily.
“The square? What world do you live in? There’s a war in there, a war! If you try to go in, you’ll get your head knocked off by a rock. And if you think I’ll protect you, let me tell you, it’s nothing to do with me. No one here is going to protect you.”
“So what do you want me to do? I have to get in.”
“I’ll tell you what to do. Go and stand with those people behind you”—he pointed to a group chanting for the long life of the regime—“and start chanting with them. Because if they find out you’re from inside the square, they’ll eat you alive. That’s the only thing you can do.”
“Over my dead body! Fine, I’ll get in through Champollion Street.”
He gave up on me. “Do whatever you want. Just get away from here.”
I turned back and started to walk toward the Champollion entrance to the square. Once again I tried to call Galal. I walked as fast as I could. Suddenly someone yelled, “Iraqis! Iraqis over there! Come on, guys!” I looked around and found a group of men heading in my direction. I didn’t get it. What Iraqis? Where were they? Then I realized they were coming for me—that I was one of the “Iraqis.” The next moment the back of my collar was in someone’s fist. I was outraged, but before I could protest, they all started talking at the same time.
“I saw her talking on the phone. She has an Iraqi accent.”
“She must be reporting back to whoever sent her here.”
“I heard her with my own ears.”
“I caught about four Iranians earlier.”
“There are spies everywhere!”
“It’s all because of those traitors inside the square.”
I tried to explain that I wasn’t Iraqi. I raised my voice to let them hear my Egyptian accent. But my naive attempts got me nowhere. They were hell-bent. I was finally saved by a taxi driver who appeared like a guardian angel. He stuck his head out of the window and shouted, “What did she do, guys?”
“She’s one of the traitors from inside. She’s a spy.”
He raised his voice. “Oh, then we must turn her in! No need to beat her up. Let’s do the right thing and hand her over to the army.”
He motioned to me surreptitiously to get into the car. My captor’s fist had loosened a bit on my collar while he talked to the driver. I slipped away and jumped into the taxi, which drove off immediately before they gathered that the driver was helping me escape.
I burst into tears the moment I got into the car. The driver looked at me in the mirror. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. He said sympathetically, “Don’t cry, miss. It’s not worth it. If you make yourself ill, do you think this country will help you? It won’t. And nothing’s more important than your health. Take it easy, please.”
He drove away from the square. I kept repeating, between sobs, “There’s no point in anything, no point at all.” Still regarding me in the mirror, he said, “Of course there is, miss! Don’t you give up! You were just in the wrong place. You know what, I go to the square every day. I don’t stay the whole day, but I go and see what I can help with—medication, cigarettes. I set aside thirty pounds every day to bring stuff to the kids who spend the night. It’s not much, but every little bit helps, right? There’s hope, miss. Those people who wanted to beat you up are just slaves to those in power. They’ve been brainwashed.”
I said through my tears, “Don’t call them slaves. They were probably paid to break up the square.”
He replied in the tone of one in the know: “No, you don’t get it. Those folks care nothing for money. They just get a kick out of this. They can’t live without being under someone’s whip.”
His views on things disturbed me. I remembered Galal’s words: “There’s no such thing as a nation of slaves. Anyone who says so is a jerk. People might be poor but they aren’t slaves.”
I asked the driver, “Where are you going?”
“I’ll take you home. Where do you live?”
“I don’t want to go home. Please
take me back to the square.”
He exhaled. “And then what? What if they catch you again? Go home, miss, until things calm down. All hell is breaking loose in the square right now. The battle is at its height.”
I said stubbornly, “Please. Just take me back to the square. Not through Abd al-Moneim Riyad this time. Take me through Qasr al-Aini.”
“OK,” he said, giving in. “Let’s just try to find a safe entrance.”
I called Galal. He could hear the tears in my voice. “Are you OK?” he asked. “Did anything happen to you?”
“I’m fine,” I replied. “Where are you?”
“Come to Qasr al-Aini. I’m here with Rima and Layla.”
The street was calm, though the pavements on both sides were all broken up. There were strange-looking types in Talaat Harb Square. The driver pulled up before we got to the first checkpoint. “It’s safe here,” he said. “Take my number. Call me if you or your friends need anything. I can get through anything. Just call. My name’s Mansur. If you ever need anything, call me and I’ll be there.”
“I’m Nadia, Mansur.” I smiled. “I don’t know how to thank you. May God protect you.”
“May victory be with us, Miss Nadia.”
Mansur went on his way. I found Galal waiting for me at the entry point to the square. His shirt was torn. Rima had a dark look on her face and Layla seemed very anxious. I started crying again in Galal’s arms. I told him in broken fragments what had happened, my head resting on his shoulder. Finally he moved me away from his shoulder and said, “Aren’t you OK now? What’s all this fuss you’re making? Don’t you know what’s been happening?”
I frowned. “You think it was nothing to be captured by a mob shouting ‘Iraqis’? They meant that I’m a spy.”
“No, sweetie,” he said. “It’s not nothing. But we were running from camels and horses a few hours ago. We’ve had Molotov cocktails flying over our heads for hours. Rima was attacked. The thugs cornered her by a small shop, and if the shopkeeper hadn’t stood up for her, they would have eaten her alive. Layla has been running around worrying about us all day. We’re all in a state, I mean. So calm down and try to pull yourself together.”
