by Donia Kamal
“No, I’m coming to you. Wait for me at the Qasr al-Nil entrance,” he replied quickly.
I laughed. “You obviously can’t wait to be here! OK, call me when you’re close. Let’s have breakfast together.”
I bought fuul and falafel sandwiches, then went to the field hospital to ask for an indigestion tablet to take after breakfast. My colon was acting up, and without the tablet I’d be sick all day.
Twenty minutes later, I met my father at the Qasr al-Nil entrance. He immediately started to explore the square with his eyes. He said the numbers weren’t as high as the first few days of the sit-in.
“Don’t be greedy,” I joked. “Do you not remember the protests you used to drag me to, where all of you together didn’t make up a hundred? Now you don’t like that we’re six hundred thousand instead of a full million?”
“I’m not complaining,” he replied. “But the truth is it’s the large numbers that will protect you from violence.”
He led me in the direction of Bab al-Luq. He looked at the soldiers and officers standing by the armored vehicle at the entrance. We circled around and around it.
“Are we done yet?” I asked impatiently.
“Yes. Let’s go to the Champollion entrance,” he said enthusiastically.
I looked to him without understanding, but I went along. At Champollion, we did the same circling of the tank that blocked the entrance there. I finally asked, “What is it? Why are you circling the tanks?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I just want to know what the military wants. They’re not here to protect you. Don’t believe that bullshit. If they wanted to prevent deaths, they would have protected you when the horses broke in. So I just don’t get why they’re stationed here.”
“But what will our endless circling of them achieve?”
“I just feel that maybe if I have a close look at them I’d be able to tell. But my gut tells me that the soldiers and officers standing here don’t really understand much themselves. I’m not sure, but I’m worried. The excessive military presence worries me. Take it from me: Military presence is always a cause for worry. Even if they do nothing at first. Be wary of them. Don’t think that you and your friends are safe because they’re here. One the contrary, they could be a source of danger.”
“Don’t be paranoid,” I said flippantly. “The military worries me too, but there’s no sense in panic. They’ve been sitting here since the last battle and they haven’t harmed us in any way.”
“But eventually they will,” he replied confidently. “They won’t shoot you out of tanks. That they wouldn’t do. But they can give you trouble. Numbers must stay high. Otherwise it’s dangerous.”
We walked around the square and continued to circle the tanks and armored vehicles. My father watched the soldiers intently.
The square was not under threat at that time. Numbers were in the tens of thousands, and there were days when they didn’t even reach a hundred thousand—at peak times, but these were still large numbers. A lot of politics was happening outside the square, and very little within it: the removal of the regime was the top priority. But outside, politicians met, committees gathered, conferences were held, and countless analysts and experts and officials and strategists attempted to design countless plans to end the political stalemate. All that was happening, while the square whistled along lightheartedly: Do whatever you like, we’re staying until the fall of the dictator. None of us was really interested in the politics taking place outside. The square stood with us: prayers and songs and symbolic coffins, jokes and posters, all with a single aim. There was no leaving, whatever the politicians and masters outside decided.
31
Ten years have passed since I last saw Zayn. My feet still sometimes carry me toward the building where he used to work. I would find myself on the steps leading to his office, and catch myself at the last minute. I miss Zayn. Ten years have passed and I still miss him. I want to lay my head in his lap and sleep. For ten years I’ve been passing his building, and can almost smell him and see his shadow. I wait for him to come out to take my hand. I long to walk with him like we used to, with no particular destination.
I found out from my father. I was at university when he called and asked me to come home immediately. I rushed home with a quivering heart. I had a morbid feeling. Someone had called our home phone and told my father. It threw him; he didn’t want to be the bearer of such sad news. But he had to tell me. I could smell death—I was an expert. Like a cat, I could sense death before it happened. Something was lodged in my chest and squeezing my heart. I couldn’t breathe properly. Blood rose to my head, and I could feel its heat in my ears. I listened to what my father had to say. Zayn was dead.
My head felt like it was stuck in a concrete cast. A violent hammering filled my body. I went to my room. I wasn’t crying. I started to hit my head on the wardrobe in rhythm with the hammering inside my body. A massive shiver went through me. Where was this chill coming from? I pushed the wardrobe closed with my head and stared at the dark wood.
What did it mean that he was dead? People didn’t just die like that. I glimpsed my father crying. He wasn’t mourning Zayn; he was mourning me and his own helplessness. For the first time in my life I felt totally lost.
I was in shock for a few months. I discovered that I found the idea of death difficult to grasp. My father gave me sleeping pills. I would wake up and find my face wet with tears. Until I lost Zayn, I didn’t know that people could cry in their sleep. And my tears do not come easily. But in my sleep, they flowed freely, fresh on my face every time I woke up. My father insisted that I sleep next to him. I could feel him check my pulse in the middle of the night, making sure I didn’t die of grief. I don’t know if this was extreme, or if it was my grief for Zayn that was extreme. For the first time in my life, I felt betrayed. When my mom died, I felt ordinary sadness, and as usual I didn’t cry. I didn’t experience that sense of betrayal until I lost Zayn.
Radwa accompanied me to the wake. I managed to hold myself together. I wore black and sat quietly, not saying a word, except—as I remember—when I asked Radwa that we leave the large, eerily quiet marquee where the wake was held. I found myself looking at the faces of other mourners and secretly wishing they were all dead instead of Zayn. When I went out into the street with Radwa, I started telling her disjointed things about Zayn, about the time we’d spent together and how I would spend the rest of my life in fear. Radwa remembers that day and says she had never seen me in that state of helpless panic. Zayn’s death made me feel more panic than grief. I said to Radwa that he wasn’t an old man—how could he die when he wasn’t an old man? How could he die when he wasn’t even ill? Radwa replied that people die for no reason all the time, suddenly and unjustifiably. She said I had to pull myself together for my father’s sake.
“I’m scared,” I said.
“There’s no reason to be scared,” she replied. “Just cry, Nadia. Crying will make you feel better.”
We were young then. We hadn’t gotten used to losing loved ones. We didn’t know how to deal with death. And because we were young, panic was the appropriate response. Real sadness came years later, when it all sank in.
When I got home after the wake, I went straight to the kitchen. I took out some vegetables and rock-hard cubes of meat from the freezer. I put the bags of frozen food under the hot tap and stood staring at them, feeling a spray of hot water on my arms and face. I stood there for half an hour, maybe longer, without moving. Finally, I touched the cubes of meat and found them a bit softer. I peeled a large onion and let the stinging tears flow. I cut the onion slowly, then put it in the copper pot, added some butter, and stood quietly in front of the stove. I recalled my moments with Zayn—his tenderness, his soft words, and how I had begged him to stop talking about death. I remembered the melancholy of his poetry; remembered him laughing at my reaction and stroking my hand. He insisted on reciting the sad words into my ear. I would object and try to get up but he held me gently and re
ad:
I asked you to want me, as you would want the season of fall
Or a river
I asked you to cross the river as if you were me, on my own
And to spread across the fields alone, as if we were together
I asked you to be
And not to be
I asked you to want me
As you would want the fall
To wither in you
Before we grow together
I asked you to want me
As you would want a river
And let me lose my memory in the fall
Before we walk together
In everything that we are
United by what keeps us apart
I burned the onion and let the meat go yellow under the hot water. I stood helpless before the stove: my hands felt paralyzed and I couldn’t even lift the pot. I don’t know how much time passed like this, but it was enough for everything to be ruined. I threw it all away—the meat and onion and pale vegetables. I stared at the mixture in the large garbage can, then went to bed.
32
Another day in the square that I pronounced miserable the moment I opened my eyes. I wished I’d just died in my sleep, because whatever we did, “there’s no point in anything.”
Galal sighed and said, “Oh, the gloom is starting early today. Good morning, Nadia.”
I rubbed my eyes. “And what would make it good? Eighteen days have passed since all this started, Galal. You’ve been telling me for eighteen days that this is a revolution and that everything will be fine. There’s no point! Stop being so stubborn and admit it.”
Rima and Layla exchanged glances. Galal helped me to my feet and announced he would take me for a morning tour. I hung my head dejectedly and let him lead me by the hand around the traffic island. For a while he talked and I listened.
“You know, Nadia, we’ve been sleeping here for two weeks. You’ve been coming and going. Rima and Layla too. Lots of people come and go. But there are people who haven’t left at all. They have been in the square the whole time. That determination is so strange. People could have left when the army was deployed, or when the square got attacked and they saw death close up. They could have left when numbers and hope dwindled, when ‘sightseers’ started visiting the square like they were visiting the zoo. You know? They could have left when the media started to disown them, called them traitors and mercenaries. They could have left many times over. But do you know, my dear Nadia, why they haven’t left?”
I looked at my shoes, whose color was buried and forgotten under layers of dirt, and said, “I only know that it doesn’t make a difference whether they stay or leave.”
“OK, I’ll tell you. They haven’t left because they still have hope, and they are determined to achieve what they came for. I don’t think they will budge. It would take superpowers to make them. Although, you know, today they might actually decide to leave. Guess why.”
I looked up for the first time since we began our walk and found that we were standing at the entrance of Qasr al-Nil Bridge.
Galal continued: “Because they will run off when they wake up and see your despair-inducing face, Nadia. Your face is a picture of bleakness. Your low spirits will empty out the square. So, my love, I suggest you take yourself for a long walk outside the square, for an hour or two or ten; see what your conscience tells you. This is to protect the revolution, Nadia.”
I looked at him in disbelief. “Are you throwing me out, Galal?”
He laughed. “No, my dear, I’m just trying to save our morale. I don’t want the protestors to wake up to this long face.”
“Morale? Whatever, Galal. You know I’m right and just don’t want to admit it.”
As he walked away, he called back, “OK, Nadia. Just go for a walk and come back when you’re in a better mood. Bye.”
I found myself alone on the bridge. I thought of following Galal, but I looked toward the square and decided there was indeed no point. So I turned and walked along the corniche. I would go home to see my father if I got tired.
I was still looking at the ground as I walked, mulling over my theory. We couldn’t see anything through. We were no good at finishing things. We created momentum but faltered at the end. It really applied to everything. We made good films with naive endings, love stories that were brilliantly romantic but ended in unnecessary drama and complications. As a generation, we sucked at finishing things.
I was startled out of my thoughts by the noise of a protest march behind me. They had started early that day. I automatically stood aside and looked over at them. Large numbers filled the corniche as far as I could see. From where I stood, they seemed like the contents of a giant bag of variously colored beans, strewn all along this stretch of the corniche. Among them were recognizable uniforms: one group dressed in the black gowns of lawyers, another in the white coats of medical doctors. It was like a scene from a 1960s operetta: the extras representing the different sectors of society, surrounded by “the promising youth.” The only difference was that this was not state propaganda, but its opposite. I stood on the sidewalk farthest from the Nile and watched them pass. I didn’t know where they were heading, but I took a few steps, and then joined them, my thin voice repeating their chants.
The march was heading toward the center for false news: Maspero, the state television building. I started imagining the battle that would ensue. The numbers were amazing. These wild beasts—the protestors—were surely going to break into the building and fight. With these numbers, we would certainly win and occupy the building. Then it would have been a real revolution. The protest extended for a few kilometers on either side of the building. The soldiers on their tanks were getting nervous; officers talked urgently into their radios. They seemed scared, and that was a good sign: they had recognized our obvious advantage.
Protestors on the front lines started talking to the military personnel. “Hey, buddy, good morning,” I overheard someone say to a young-looking soldier, who only smiled and looked away. I felt my blood rise. “Buddy”? And “good morning”? How was that the attitude of a revolutionary? Why weren’t we breaking into this building that everyone agreed was a locus of oppression and corruption? Only later would I understand that there was an implicit agreement to never force entry anywhere. People kept arriving at targets and just standing there. Maybe out of fear. Maybe to preserve the principle of nonviolence. Maybe out of some presumptive trust in the military or respect for public property, which time and time again would be put above the people and their lives.
And so, even at that moment of overwhelming advantage, the protestors refused to force their way in. When I asked someone why we weren’t at least going to the square instead, he replied with confidence, “The square is already full. They will fear us more if we stand here. This is a very important location. You’re too young to understand.”
I nodded in genuine agreement. “You’re right. I really don’t understand anything at all.”
I ended up standing there for about eight hours, moving between the shade of a tree across the street and the front line by the barbed wire. I tried to read the expressions on the officers’ faces, and when everything persisted in making no sense, I went back to the tree.
Finally I got bored and decided to go home to check on my father. I called and found him in an edgy mood.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m going to get dressed and go out.”
“What’s the rush? Wait, I’ll come get you.”
“No, no, stay where you are. Aren’t you at the square?”
“No, I’m by Maspero. Don’t go to the square. Meet me in Talaat Harb. I’ll be at Groppi in half an hour.”
I ended the call and started walking. It was impossible to find a taxi, so I walked all the way to Talaat Harb Square. The sun was setting, and numbers were picking up. So was my heartbeat as I stood outside Groppi. I saw my father crossing the street, and at the same moment I heard a gunshot. I ran toward him. He was looking aro
und, trying to determine where the noise had come from. I took his arm and pulled him quickly toward the sidewalk. Before we had time to say anything, a man came running at a mad speed, heading toward Tahrir Square and screaming, “He stepped down! He stepped down!” We exchanged looks of incomprehension. Who had stepped down? We headed toward Groppi, and found people there hugging each other and talking frantically. There had been a short statement from the former chief of intelligence and newly appointed vice president. The regime had fallen. The president had handed over his authority to the armed forces. I jumped up and down. I turned to my father to hug him and saw him standing at the door, far from me. He was smiling in relief. His face faded, then disappeared.
33
I brought out all the cleaning tools from the wooden cupboard under the sink: the disinfectants, yellow dusters, floor cleaner, upholstery powder, bleach for the toilet, and glass cleaner. I emptied all the small trash cans into one big garbage bag. When I was young, my mother used to always give me the chore of changing the trash cans. I used to do it grudgingly. I took the full bag outside and put clean bags in all the cans. I lined up the cleaning products neatly at the kitchen threshold and prepared myself for the task ahead by lighting the first cigarette.
Silence was reigning once more between Ali and me. For a while, there had been nothing to say. He was feeling down and didn’t leave his house. Did he not want to see me? I couldn’t tell. I went about my days mechanically. Nothing mattered really, not then and not ever. Then he reappeared, briefly. I told him that I was fed up, that I wanted to go somewhere far away. He didn’t want me to go. “Do what you want, Nadia, just don’t leave me.” I stared at the ceiling of the room. In truth, I didn’t want to go yet—not if he still wanted me beside him. I combed his long hair, and with a kiss sent him off to work. He wanted the sacred doorstep hug to last forever. So we stayed together, united by our misery and by the doorstep hug, which was the only thing that mattered.
