In fact, the man was right. I could barely afford an English–Chinese dictionary in the other room. I did not have an allowance, though I had lunch money, and I already knew that I could scrimp and get enough money for a dictionary in a week. But what about this roomful of non-books? They were all photocopied materials, bound crudely, with light blue paper as cover. There was not even a Chinese title to tell me what they were. Oh the world was so close yet so far away, separated from mine by a language I had yet to master.
(Though the bookshop manager had foreseen the necessity to bar international friends, copyright was a completely unknown concept to most people at the time. Piracy—from bookshops to the internet—is a complicated issue in China. In my own case, I owe much of my education to pirated books, yet I’m also aware that, despite having refused to have my work translated into Chinese, people do so with impunity and publish translations both online and in print magazines without any communication with me.)
Once, after I had won a literary award, a journalist asked me if I had had a celebratory dinner. One of my many vices, I told him, was that I don’t like food. Lucky you, he said, but then you don’t know what you’ve missed.
I laughed, though my thought at that moment was: you don’t know what I didn’t miss. I spent three years of middle school eating noodles for lunch—twenty-one cents a meal for soupy noodles with a ladle of soy sauce on top. (By way of comparison, here were my other options: for rice and a vegetable dish it was forty cents; rice with a meat dish fifty cents; dumplings sixty; a platter of paper-thin cold cuts—no more than eight pieces—ten cents; an ice-cream bar twelve cents.) I can barely touch noodles now; I can eat cereal all day long. I must have destroyed my palate in middle school as I destroyed my eyes in third grade. But all, one must say, for a good cause!
And the money I saved: I’ve never felt so rich as I felt in middle school. And I’ve never splurged as I did then. Before long I owned two English–Chinese dictionaries, which I read voraciously; I also owned almost all the available English textbooks—textbooks not for middle school or high school but university students. One of them started with an article (touristy, in retrospect) about Cambridge University; another a Dylan Thomas essay (I didn’t know who this person was but liked the essay); another a reportage about D-Day (which I had yet to learn about in world history).
Before long I started to covet the books in the inner section of the bookshop. Yes, an ugly duckling has to become a swan.
This is, of course, a story with a happy ending. And so rarely does a story have such a happy ending. Within a couple of years I’d gained enough confidence in my English (and found more ingenious ways to scrimp) that I started to become a regular customer in the inner section of the bookshop. Those piles on the floor were not books, but the Reader’s Digest, photocopied, four issues bound together into a volume. They were costly, but they were entirely in English, and they were kept secret from most people, and they were my treasures. Down the rabbit hole I plunged. To this day I believe I’ve read more issues of Reader’s Digest than anyone I’ve met; and more thoroughly, no doubt, as I paid close attention to every ad, every insert, every illustration (badly reproduced photos especially). The annotations I made in those volumes were as comprehensive as those I have made in War and Peace or Chekhov’s stories in later life.
The bookshop is long gone, demolished along with the marketplace and the shoe-repair shop and the old Beijing. But never, I can say with certainty, has there been a bookshop that has provided so much magic in my life. There a girl found her prince in the pirated copies of Reader’s Digest. An unworthy match? No, not at all. All that offers a happy ending is a good fairy tale.
If You Wound a Snake…
ALAA AL ASWANY
In 2011 my book Egypt on the Reserve Bench was published. It was a collection of articles in which I tried to explain how Egypt’s potential was in a state of complete paralysis due to the dictatorship. I was invited to book signings in a number of bookshops. Book signings are both useful and enjoyable. An author usually writes for a public who cannot see him, and whenever an author listens to his readers he learns new things which can be of use to him in his writing.
On 23rd January I went to a book signing in the Dar El Shorouk bookshop in Mohandeseen—a bookshop as large, well-stocked and as grand as any big bookshop in London or New York. Mohandeseen is a middle-class district in which most Cairenes would aspire to live, and at the signing I expected to see readers from Mohandeseen: well-groomed men in designer casual and society ladies wearing the latest fashions, all peppering their conversation with English; people who generally derived enjoyment from culture and refinement; people who resented corruption and oppression in theory as they were much less exposed to them than the masses; people who favoured gradual political reform because they feared that any violent or fundamental change might deprive them of the dolce vita they were blessed with. That was the type of readership I was expecting, but the moment I stepped inside the crowded bookshop I was surprised by a different scene. The readers were much more varied. There were young and old, middle-class as well as poor people whose appearance might have seemed out of place in this upmarket shop. The crowd was so large that the management had had to open up two more rooms, each equipped with a screen so that everyone could follow the discussion.
In those days, Egypt was seething with anger as the elections had been grotesquely rigged so that Mubarak’s party gained an absolute majority. The constitution had been amended specifically so that the president’s son, Gamal Mubarak, could inherit power. Police oppression had increased to the point where any Egyptian could be tortured for the slightest reason. It was common knowledge that the police were above the law and that they could even get away with killing innocent citizens. All over social media there was mobile footage showing the police meting out gruesome torture to Egyptians. A few weeks earlier, the police in Alexandria had killed a young man called Khaled Said in an act of revenge for him having uploaded a video showing police officers divvying up hashish from a drug bust. The photograph of Khaled Said’s mangled face, the complicity of the authorities in the investigation and their attempts to exculpate the killers all led to a surge in anger from the youth of the country. A Facebook page, “We are all Khaled Said”, was created with hundreds of thousands joining it in the very first hours. The page called upon Egyptians to join in the demonstration on 25th January, which was also “Police Day” in Egypt. The message would be to object to police brutality against Egyptians and to demand a change in Egypt’s political system. The fall and flight of the Tunisian dictator Ben Ali had shown the Egyptian people that a revolution could put an end to tyranny.
It was against this background that the book signing was being held, just two days before the anti-Mubarak demonstration. The atmosphere in the bookshop felt different from other book signings. It felt like a student gathering or a workers’ sit-in. Everyone seemed strangely agitated, as if they wanted to express something or other, to state publicly what they were thinking or to declare something for the record. I said a few words about the subject matter of the book and the need for regime change and then I opened up the floor for discussion. Usually, whenever I hold a seminar, a state security agent comes to stir up trouble or to be so provocative that the discussion turns into a shouting match.
The first person to speak was a young woman in her twenties. With an edge of aggression to her voice she told me:
“I don’t understand the secret of your hostility towards Mubarak. He is a democratic president, but circumstances have compelled him to institute democracy a step at a time. Egypt isn’t Switzerland and the ordinary Egyptian can’t handle democracy. When all is said and done, you just write books but President Mubarak bears responsibility for eighty-five million people. There may be some beauty in what you write, but it’s a pack of lies and I don’t believe a word of it.”
I decided not to rise to the provocation. I answered calmly:
“You have every rig
ht not to believe what I write but my works have been translated into thirty-five languages and I am proud to have millions of readers who do. You are wrong to say that I am just a writer, because writing is a profession of the utmost difficulty. If you’ve read some Egyptian history, you’ll be aware that Egyptians have been fighting for democracy since the nineteenth century. The meaning of democracy is justice, and not only every human but every creature needs justice. Personally I don’t know Mubarak well enough to like or dislike him, but he’s the dictator responsible for the corruption, brutality and poverty Egyptians have been suffering from. As for you saying that Mubarak is democratic, I have never heard of a democratic president who ruled his country for thirty years non-stop.”
There was enthusiastic applause but an argument soon broke out between the young woman who had just spoken and other women sitting near her who accused her of being a state security plant. Voices called out for her to be ejected from the bookshop. I managed to convince them to let her be (although she soon made her own way out of the shop). The discussion resumed and I soon noticed that people’s views seemed to correlate to their age group. The older readers spoke about change with a sort of despair, saying that what had taken place in Tunisia couldn’t possibly happen in Egypt because the regime here was too strong and well-established and had powerful tools of oppression. The young people, on the other hand, asked me whether I was going to take part in the demonstrations on 25th January. To that I responded:
“I’m going to take part in the demonstrations and I call upon all those who want change to come out on 25th January. If we turn out in great numbers we’ll be able to change this country.”
There was a murmur of satisfaction from the young people and then a chic elderly lady raised her hand and asked me:
“Do you believe that change will come about in Egypt?”
“Absolutely. And it will come about sooner than we think,” I replied.
The old lady smiled as if trying to conceal her sarcasm:
“And do you think you could explain the reasons for your optimism?”
“I’m a novelist,” I said. “And I always strive to understand people. Egyptians can no longer put up with what’s happening.”
A young woman stood up and said:
“I’m a student at the College of Engineering at Cairo University and I want to say something to you all: my uncle is a police officer and he gave me a dire warning not to go out on 25th January. He told me in no uncertain terms that the police have received clear instructions to open fire on demonstrators.”
There was tense silence. Then I asked her:
“And what are you going to do?”
Without a second thought she answered:
“I’m most definitely going to take part in the demonstrations. I could never forgive myself if I let my colleagues down.”
Applause echoed throughout the bookshop and then I said:
“Now you see why I am an optimist. Courageous young people like that will not allow themselves to be defeated.”
The evening ended with the book signing and the readers taking selfies of themselves with me. The next day the press coverage of the event was completely skewed, with one newspaper claiming that I had warned the young people against demonstrating, telling them that I would not be coming out on 25th January. Another newspaper reported that the audience had attacked me and rejected what I wrote on the grounds that I was trying to bring down the state and stir up pandemonium. Those false reports did not really worry me because I have grown used to them and because I know that the Egyptian readership does not generally have much faith in the media as it is all under the control of the state security police. Despite my enthusiasm for the 25th January demonstrations and my appeal to the young people to take part in them, I kept my expectations low to avoid being stricken by a sense of frustration. At that time I was still working on my novel The Automobile Club of Egypt and I woke up early in the morning as usual, worked on until noon, had some lunch, took a nap and then in the early evening I went out to Tahrir Square where I found a huge number of demonstrators. Young people kept shaking my hand and one said:
“Do you remember me? I was at your book signing in the shop in Mohandeseen the day before yesterday. We were a group of students and we hadn’t been able to make up our minds. But after your encouragement, we all decided to come out today.”
At that moment, there were at least twenty thousand of us in Tahrir Square, all shouting against the dictator. Happy as I felt, I did not let my optimism carry me away because we had been kettled in by thousands of state security police and scores of armoured cars. They could crush us at any moment. At about 8 p.m. an enormous demonstration reached the square, having started out in Nahiyya, a working-class district of Cairo. Those demonstrators set upon the security police concertedly and with gusto, and succeeded in breaking through the police lines into the square. There were now around fifty thousand demonstrators in the square and the security police were still waiting for their orders. There was a festive mood and a fellow demonstrator turned and said to me:
“At last we’ve managed to mobilize people against tyranny. Today is the start of change.”
At twenty to one in the morning the gates of hell opened. The armoured cars fired off a salvo of tear gas grenades from all directions, and the gas lay so thick in the air that scores of people fainted, including some of the policemen who were firing the gas at us. As demonstrators started rushing to try and get out of the square they were set upon by plainclothes policemen who hustled them into police vans. The plan was obviously to leave demonstrators the choice of choking on the tear gas or being arrested as they tried to flee. I was lucky in being able to escape into a small side street where there were no policemen, and I kept running until I reached the other side of the downtown district. I found myself standing in front of Cinema Metro with about twenty young demonstrators who, like me, had managed to get out of the square without being arrested. It was now past one in the morning. The street was empty, but suddenly an old street sweeper passed by, dragging a long, worn-out broom. It was an odd sight to see, but it was even odder when he shouted out gruffly:
“If you wound a snake, you have to finish him off. Kill the snake before he does you in.”
The young demonstrators hailed the sweeper who trundled off with his broom like the hero in a Greek tragedy.
“So what do you think?” one of the demonstrators asked me in a friendly tone. “What should we do now?”
“I’m glad the demonstration succeeded,” I said. “That is the strongest message against the dictator. Let’s be happy with what we’ve achieved today. I think we should go home for now and demonstrate again tomorrow.”
“Won’t happen!” I was surprised to hear one of the demonstrators say. “Won’t happen. We’re not going home now.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to arrest Mubarak tonight?” I asked. “Our struggle demands that we be patient.”
They started arguing with me and I looked at them and realized for the first time that I didn’t understand them. Another of the young guys came over to me and told me emphatically:
“Listen, mister. I’m from Ismailiya. I got my science baccalaureate five years ago and I’m still unemployed. I’ve got nothing. No work here, no chance of getting work in another country, and no hope of being able to get married. I have come to Cairo to get rid of Mubarak or die. I’m already dying. Just imagine that I…”
His words dried up and he burst into tears. I took a few steps so I was right in front of the group of young people and asked them bluntly:
“And what is it that you want?”
Almost as one they replied: “We’re going back to the square!”
I went back to the square with them, where we were gradually joined by groups of demonstrators who, like us, had fled from the tear gas and, like us, had then decided to make their way back to the square. That is how I witnessed the start of the revolution.
Translated fro
m the Arabic by Russell Harris
Desiderium:
The Accidental Bookshop of Nairobi
YVONNE ADHIAMBO OWUOR
We met, sometimes, mother and I, within timeless words dreamed by others. We played tag in worlds inhabited by letter-created djinns, and phantoms and elves and hobbits too. A child, a daughter among many, craving the many ways a mother, also a teacher, expresses her “I love yous”. We met in variegated worlds made from the words of so many authors: the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Andersen, Marjorie Oludhe Macgoye, Enid Blyton, Grace Ogot, J.R.R. Tolkien, James Herriot, Wilbur Smith, Jack London, Roald Dahl, C.S. Lewis, L.M. Montgomery. These peddled worlds inside worlds, within which Nairobi, the city, Kileleshwa, the suburb, could be subsumed by orcs, ogres, talking trees, Noddy and boy and girl sleuths. Mother brought home these books once a month. They came wrapped in brown packages and were stamped “Westlands Sundries”.
* * *
One day, mother escorted my younger sister and me into the timeless realm from which storybooks came. We dressed up. We had to be “suitably attired” to enter such a magical place. This dressing up was as the click-click of Dorothy’s Wizard of Oz red slippers.
The bookshop was a long illuminated rectangle.
Choose one, mother said.
Budgets were more tightly defined in those days.
Choose one.
Only one?
We touched the spines of books, sniffed pages for the new book scents—each so different. We were in paradise because there was no (offending) school textbook in sight to destroy our illusions! There were toys and puzzles and some stationery, but no school mathematics or geography texts or workbooks. Enid Blyton was there, the perennial queen. Magazines that other children would swarm around, but not us.
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