by Donia Kamal
I went quiet, suddenly realizing how dramatic I was being. Galal added: “Also, Iraqi? You couldn’t look more Egyptian.”
“Well, Iraqis look like us,” I murmured, then looked at Rima. “What happened to you?”
“I lived through a fucking horror movie.”
Impersonating Galal, I pretended to make light of things: “Aren’t you OK now? What’s all this fuss you’re making?”
We all laughed and some of the tension dissipated.
“Let’s sit for a bit and take a break from all this,” said Layla.
“You go. I have to get back to the front,” said Galal, and started running in the direction of the square.
“Is Galal going to war?” I asked. “The front?”
“Oh, it’s because you’re a foreigner now. Let me explain,” said Layla. “The square turned into a war zone in the past few hours. We now have, God bless us, the Champollion front, Muhammad Mahmud front, Qasr al-Nil front, and this one, Qasr al-Aini front. There are barriers and barricades and makeshift trenches on each one. They attack and we respond from our side. But inside the square it’s also not entirely safe. There are people on top of buildings throwing Molotovs. We’ve been having a shitty time. May this day come to an end.”
“But how do we know these are paid thugs?” I wondered aloud. “Couldn’t they just be people who bought yesterday’s bullshit speech? Guys, people outside really think that we’re spies and traitors.”
Rima shot me a ferocious look. “What’s wrong with you, Nadia? You’ve seen for yourself. No one here has any weapons. They’ve attacked us on camel and horseback! And that squad on the roofs is throwing fireballs onto the heads of unarmed people. I have no idea what’s happening outside, but we’ve witnessed a massacre here today.”
“So what are we supposed to do now?” I asked, exhausted.
“Nothing,” said Layla. “We wait till Galal returns. It’s difficult to get into the square now. But when they start attacking from Talaat Harb, we’ll try to move to a safer spot.”
I’d completely forgotten about calling my father. I dialed his number and he picked up immediately. I told him calmly that I was fine and that where I was standing it was safe. I said that everything was going well, that the protestors had the situation under control.
Later, when I walked into the square, I could smell blood. Dozens of men and youths had their heads bandaged, the blood seeping through the basic cotton and gauze they’d used. There was blood everywhere. I started to panic. I hadn’t imagined things to be this bad. Where had all this come from? The regime was trying to save itself through whatever means it could, crushing the dreamers in its way. For me, everyone in that square was a dreamer—people dreaming that by sheer will, they could change something so powerful, solid, and deep-rooted. In a country like ours, this was a wild dream, especially when it grew out of the middle classes. We were all cogs in the machinery of this immense nightmare. We produced nothing, only consumed and went around in circles. We had never experienced hunger. There are people in the world who commit or contemplate murder in order to eat or feed their children—those are the people that make revolutions. But there were not many of those in the square. We were mostly just dreamers . . . willful dreamers.
*
It was a black night. That’s the only way I can describe it. On the Abd al-Moneim Riyad, Champollion, and Qasr al-Nil fronts, the violence didn’t abate. On Qasr al-Aini, it stopped and started. The groups fighting on the inside defended the entrances ferociously. Galal came and went, returning to us for a few minutes, then leaving again. One time he came back with a head injury. He wasn’t bleeding, but he had a big bump on his forehead and held his head in pain. But that didn’t stop him from running back to the front.
I called my father at short intervals, every hour or two, to joke with him and reassure him that we had the square under control. He was panicking because of the news he was watching on TV, but hearing that I was fine calmed him down.
I didn’t subject myself to any violent confrontations that night. I knew my limits. Nothing terrified me more than those rocks flying around. I couldn’t bring myself to pick up a rock and throw it at another person, or even throw it into the air. It was then that I discovered I was a coward. I couldn’t partake in the violence, which I viewed with awe and fear. I understood the position of self-defense in the context of a battle like this. Let the fighters fight. The most I could do was be present. I was just a body to add to the numbers of protestors. I couldn’t contribute anything more than this. Or that’s what I thought. Until I found myself a few hours later holding a hose and helping someone fill Molotov bottles with fuel.
I was in a trance and couldn’t object. The young man who requested my help looked poor and would have been called a thug by the TV news, but he was on our side. I was leaning on a parked motorbike when he came to me, out of breath, his head in a bandage like most men in the square, and carrying an empty bottle. He said in a worn-out voice, “Hey, miss, hold this bottle for a minute.”
I automatically did what he asked. He proceeded to open the motorbike’s tank and insert a primitive hose into it. “Now give me the bottle, and hold the hose like this.”
“Right, yes,” I said in blind obedience.
I held the hose while he tilted the bike at a certain angle until drops of fuel started to trickle into the bottle. A few seconds passed before I understood what I was doing. What if this bottle killed someone, which wasn’t at all unlikely? In the seconds that followed, I contemplated dropping the hose and running away. But I didn’t. I waited until he was done. He took the hose from my hand, closed the tank, and said as he rushed away, “Thanks, miss. We’ll be victorious, God willing!”
I murmured under my breath, “You’re welcome, buddy. You and whoever will be hit by this.”
It was unequivocally the longest night of my life. The night wouldn’t end and the violence wouldn’t stop. The sound of banging on the metal fences grated on my nerves. The battle continued till daybreak. We were continuously calling our friends to check if they were still alive. No one came out of the battle intact. We were all casualties in one way or another. Some were injured by bricks, others were traumatized by what they had seen or experienced, some lost their eyes, and then there were those who lost their lives. Things got calmer on the second day, and by daybreak the protestors were winning. The others were finally beginning to retreat, overcome by courage and numbers, and above all by determination. I do think that battle affected, on a personal level, everyone who took part in it. If you’ve witnessed so much violence and blood and fought for your own survival, it would be impossible to stay the same. Something changed in each one of us. My fear of violence increased, but also my support of its necessity in the face of overwhelming force. We all became more determined to carry on, and above all to maintain our sense of humor.
I heard someone recount to his friend how difficult it was to lead the captured camel down the steps of the metro station. “The camel gave us such a hard time!” I cracked up, just imagining the scene: the revolutionaries leading a camel down the steps of the underground metro station, which was used as a makeshift prison for those thugs they could detain. There was much debate in the square as to what they should do with the camel—slaughter it or hand it over to the army? Some said we should slaughter it, grill its meat, and eat it. Others thought that would fill the square with more blood, and we already had enough. The final verdict was to hand it over to the army, ending one of the most absurd discussions I’ve ever heard in my life. Revolutionaries discussing the fate of a captive camel, as they adorned lampposts with horse reins that were jokingly referred to as the spoils of war. The kind of absurdity you’d be hard pressed to find anywhere but in Egypt.
But the battle did finally end. The phase of counting losses that followed was painful. Hundreds of people died that day. Hundreds or maybe thousands were injured. People lost eyes, and some lost their sight altogether. The losses were huge. Still, the
spirit of the square was like a magic balm over these wounds. The square was mighty and clear: it had power and influence and spirit. It supported and healed. It had a face and a voice. With unbelievable continuity it pushed us to carry through what we were doing. It left us no room for retreat or disappointment. Further proof was the state of people outside the square—breakdowns and despair. Few managed to maintain the same spirit outside the square.
Tahrir continued to attract large numbers every day, even if most went home at night. They returned in the mornings, afternoons, evenings, injecting enthusiasm and persistence into the protestors who were sleeping there. There was no explanation for this except that the square itself was pushing us forward. The powerful monster of the ruling authorities shrank a little more every day before the spectacle and the purpose of the square.
29
Ali came over with other friends. I sat on the rocking chair and he perched next to me. I tapped my foot nervously. All eyes were on us. He casually extended his arm behind my back and stroked my shoulder. The others were talking loudly. Gradually the voices faded, leaving the two of us engulfed in our silence. Only silence brought us together. I looked at Ali’s hand and touched it for a second. It was warm. When the last person had left, he rested his head on my shoulder and slept.
This was what often happened when Ali came over with the others. He’d touch me coyly, suppressing the urge to throw himself into my arms. I knew that and saw it all the time. Ali belonged in my arms. He was like a cat. I would stroke his head and let him bury his head in my chest until he fell asleep. Sometimes, in his sleep, he would turn his back to me and continue sleeping with his face to the other side of sofa. But in order to fall asleep in the first place, he had to bury his head in my chest. I remembered my father’s advice about not treating Ali like he was my child. I’d never been a mother and knew little about maternal feelings; I just responded to Ali based on how I felt. When he wanted to hide in my arms, I held him. When he wanted to go away and never come back, I left him alone and didn’t call him.
Did I ever do anything that upset Ali? I must have. There were the days I would leave him and go to my wailing wall—in the big bathroom—then come back with puffy eyes and no explanation. He hated that. He wanted me to smile. And he wanted me to talk because he couldn’t. But even on days when I couldn’t smile at Ali, I would still look into his eyes to make sure the magic world still lived there. He didn’t know how I saw him, and I—naturally—didn’t know how he saw me. But in his eyes, I still saw all the lands I’d ever wanted to visit, all the innocence of an unspoiled world. I saw everything that was unattainable in this life.
I remember that time we went on a desert trip with our friends. There were about ten of us in a big tent and, as usual, they were all talking nonstop. I left the loud laughter and the many stories and slipped away to the void outside. At the door of the tent lay an infinity I knew well. I lay down on the soft sand, trying to sink down to its deepest layer, and looked at the sky. Since I was a child I had been looking at the sky. I looked for the three aligned stars. I’m not sure where I got the idea but I believed those three stars brought me luck and love. I always found them, but luck and love never found me.
The sky was so full of stars that night, and that time I couldn’t locate my three stars. But I saw a meteor shower, ten or so shooting stars, and at the same moment Ali came out of the tent and walked over lightly to join me. He placed his arm under my head and looked up, searching for what I was looking at. I turned to him. He lay as if he were floating above the sand. He didn’t sink like I did. I planted a kiss on his cheek. He smiled. A few minutes later he got up and set off running. I heard his laughter and sank deeper into the sand. Maybe it was on that night that I realized he was never going to be with me. I was inside the sand, sinking to the deepest possible layer, while he ran above it, his feet barely touching the ground.
Ali didn’t remember most of what happened between us. His memory was selective. I sometimes thought that he forgot things intentionally to protect himself from hurting when we eventually stopped seeing each other. But I insisted on reminding him of the moments we shared. I too had a selective memory, and I was choosing not to forget. What he didn’t know was that I loved him mainly so I could remember him when he was gone. If parting was always an unspoken presence between us, then let us save what we can. The memories would be all that was left when everything else was over. I would wait until his head was settled on my chest before sleep and start to quietly recount the moments we shared.
Do you remember, Ali, when I went to see Radwa, in the cold faraway country? I used all the communication tools of the twenty-first century to reach you, and you didn’t answer. Suddenly you had stopped taking my calls. I sat in a beautiful room where the sun shone through the winter snow, and couldn’t sleep. Long hours watching night turn into day and not sleeping. Do you remember, Ali, when you then suddenly reappeared in a text message to tell me that you were ill? Do you remember the exact moment when you told me that everything had gone suddenly dark around you and that I, sitting here thousands of miles away, was the last thing you thought of before the world faded away? I sat in that faraway room with my heart beating. I knew then that nothing mattered but you.
You didn’t remember the moments we had, Ali, while I chose to forget everything else and remember my moments with you.
30
Things quieted down in the square. Two days had passed since the big battle. The protestors’ good humor was on the rise. There were nights of singing till morning. We made our beds on the sidewalk, I wrapped in my heavy coat to avoid using the blankets with their gas smell and their fleas, while Galal would wrap himself up in a filthy blanket and sleep like he was lying in the most comfortable bedroom. His easy sleep annoyed me, so I decided to punish him: “Galal! Galal! Wake up, I need to talk to you!”
“Shut up, Nadia, and let me sleep.”
“Galal, Galal, Galal, get up!”
He finally sat up angrily and said, “What do you want, Nadia?”
Acting like a spoiled brat, which was entirely inappropriate, I said, “I’m cold. I can’t sleep.”
“Cover yourself with a blanket and you’ll be able to sleep.”
“The blankets aren’t clean. They’re infested,” I said coldly.
“Do you think you’re at the Hilton? You’re sleeping in the street. Cut the attitude and sleep.”
“Galal, please get up and let’s go for a walk. I’m fed up. Please come with me.”
Our voices woke Layla, who said, “Just settle down and sleep, everybody! You woke me up. Nadia, take a blanket and sleep and let’s just get through the night, please.”
“I won’t sleep. If no one gets up to go for a walk with me, I’ll keep waking you up every time you fall asleep,” I said stubbornly.
Finally Galal relented and stood up and pulled me by the arm. “Come on, then. You’d think we were on the beach. You want to go for a walk. You do realize we’re in the middle of a revolution?”
As I walked triumphantly away with him, I heard Layla murmur, “Good riddance!”
We walked around the square. The dawn prayer hadn’t been called yet. I watched the many tents on the traffic island in the middle of the square. Most protestors were asleep after another tiring day. But there was light in the field hospital by the Mugamma building, and a few young people sat in a circle by it. The oldest must have been twenty. I pulled Galal in their direction. We stood at a distance and listened to them sing old Muhammad Munir songs. I started humming along, then suggested we join them.
They welcomed us and sang with rising enthusiasm. I looked at their faces and smiled. When I was a teenager, I was a temperamental, unfriendly girl. I had my headphones on all the time and never sang aloud. I was difficult to get along with and would never have welcomed strangers into a circle like this one. I used to practice scowling in the mirror, ready to repel anyone who dared to come close. I watched these kids and smiled spontaneously. My he
art beat in tenderness toward them. I thought they would never have to deal with bitterness like me, or fear like Layla, or uncertainty like Rima. Only Galal resembled them. He would still have his fresh-faced spirit when he was seventy years old. Galal was born with a cheekiness, a spontaneity, and a youthful sense of hope that would always stay with him. That was what I loved about Galal: his faith, his enthusiasm, and his excitement about life were intact.
I looked at his tired face, laughing and singing with the kids, and envied his faith and his clarity. I didn’t know what to do, so I reached for his hand, and he spontaneously squeezed mine back, all the while singing and swaying his head with the tune. I left the singing circle and walked around the square. At every entrance there was a checkpoint. Familiar faces called “good morning” to me, and I smiled and answered. I stood watching a group of soldiers washing a tank at one of the entrances. There was a deep container with some cleaning liquid or solvent. Each soldier would dip a filthy rag into the liquid, squeeze it, and use it to rub one part of the tank. They did that every morning. The tanks would be covered with revolutionary graffiti and obscene curses directed at the regime, which would have angered their senior officers. So at the start of each day, before their superiors woke up, the soldiers would clean the tanks, which would just acquire new writings and drawings in the course of the day, while the soldiers looked on in frustration and prepared themselves to clean them again the next morning. As I walked past I called to them, “Don’t clean so diligently. They won’t stay clean.” Time passed. Galal must have gone back to sleep.
I called my father. “Morning. Do you want to come here or shall I come home?”
