by Nihad Sirees
My mother waited for me to open my mouth.
“How did you meet him?” I asked.
“It’s a long story. Actually I’m a friend of his office manager’s wife. She told me he had been asking about me and asked if I had any objections to meeting him. It turns out they had talked the matter over before he ever asked me out for coffee.”
“And you said yes?”
“Yes.”
“Everybody knows he’s married to some woman named Aisha.”
“He divorced her. Now that he’s a big shot in the government she’s no longer right for him.”
“Does he know that I don’t like them and that they don’t like me?”
“He knows you very well and says he’s even read some of your work.”
“How can you marry someone who mistreated your deceased husband, who even now is messing with your son and keeping him from writing?”
“That was all in the past. As for you, I think you’re going to get some powerful backing, that you’ll be able to go back to writing for the newspaper.”
“I can see you’re set on this marriage.”
“I’m still a young woman. I deserve this.”
“What does Samira think?”
“She doesn’t care.”
So I’m the only person in this entire family who cares. My mother has forgotten all about how she used to describe them to my father and make up jokes about them. Her “not giving a shit” had caused her to unintentionally fall into line. I saw fit to emulate my sister’s approach, so I stood up, getting ready to leave. My mother saw me to the outer door, where, after shoving some money in my hand, she asked me what I thought.
“You can marry anyone you want,” I said. “You’re a free woman.”
“Will you come to the wedding?”
“Do you think you could keep me away from that circus?”
“Circus?”
“When do you plan on having it?”
“The wedding? Ha’el wants it to be on Wednesday.”
“In three days? He is in a hurry, but why Wednesday in particular? Why not Thursday?”
“Because he wants to get married on the twentieth anniversary of the Leader coming to power.”
“I never dreamt they would occupy my mother’s bedroom on that day as well.”
“Go think it over and try to get a hold on yourself. You’re coming to the wedding whether you like it or not. You’re my only son. I’d simply die of shame if you weren’t there. Anyway, I’ll figure out the best way for you two to meet beforehand. I’ll give you a call.”
“Do you love him?”
“Not yet, he’s just a fiancé.”
Just a fiancé? As I stared at her, she seemed weaker, lonelier. Here was this amazing woman thinking about marriage in spite of all those wrinkles on her neck and her face. She wanted to get married in order to prove to herself first and foremost that she was still a young woman. I wanted her to be happy. She stretched her neck and offered me her cheek, which I kissed and then left.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS A LITTLE past eleven fifteen when I made it back out into the street. I walked along the sidewalk even though there was no traffic on the asphalt road, instinctively making my way downtown, where I saw hordes of human beings occupying the squares and the main streets. I could hear the sounds of the march coming out of television sets in homes nearby. The Leader has a straightforward rule: housewives not taking part in the march must watch it on TV. People have to raise the sound on their sets and leave the windows open if they do not wish to be accused of being unpatriotic. The poet had finished reciting his poem and the announcer moved on to describe the feelings of the masses, their patriotism and love for the Leader.
“Hark, O Leader, at the mass of masses, how they chant your name with strength and determination until their chants reach the clouds in the sky so that your name can embrace the stars. If there are any other life forms in the universe we’ll find them chanting your name too, chanting with their faces upturned toward our God-given homeland. Observe, O Leader, how the masses thank God for having been born in your era. The Era of Dignity and Freedom. The Era of the Leader. So lead us, O Leader, lead us to victory. This is what the masses chant. Lead us to incomparable victory!”
The broadcaster’s raspy voice blended in with the chanting and the brass band music being broadcast through megaphones lining the squares and the streets, rousing the enthusiasm of the masses.
Ever since the Leader took power music had been transformed into a national art. There is no longer l’art pour l’art. Even those rare intellectuals who were once seen on television and heard over the radio began to assault the theory of l’art pour l’art. Music is not for savoring, for burnishing the soul and improving the self; it is not for contemplating or luxuriating the senses; it is for the purposes of enthusiasm alone. “Music must play its role in stirring up the masses,” the Leader says. Therefore classical Arabic music and the muwashahat are relegated to the back rows, replaced with military marches. What we call authentic art vanishes in the marching crowds, the pounding drums and the screeching horns. Nothing can be heard out of that noise except for the sound of military brass bands, as the instruments of the Arabic orchestra get lost in the shuffle. They have no place in our present. The kamanche? A silly and worthless instrument when played to the beating of drums. The same is true for the qanun and the nay. The nay or the horn? The nay is insignificant, reactionary and unpatriotic because it drives the listener to contemplation and sorrow, befitting the silence of the grave, whereas the horn renders people more awake and enthusiastic, more patriotic because they will be ready to sacrifice spirit and blood on behalf of the Leader.
But who ever said that military marches are not art? Tchaikovsky is considered one of the greatest composers of the nineteenth century and he wrote a piece entitled Slavonic March in which the music swells to a crescendo at the moment of victory. The very same Tchaikovsky also wrote the 1812 Overture, which is the year that witnessed Napoleon’s defeat in Russia. Meanwhile the German musical giant Beethoven wrote his Third Symphony (the Eroica) and dedicated it to Napoleon Bonaparte. These symphonies are based on the rhythm of the heroic military march so loved by the Leader. When the Russian Ambassador learned of the Leader’s passion (for music), he invited him to Moscow at once, packing his schedule with trips to the Bolshoi and other theaters, where both the Seventh Symphony (Leningrad) and the Eighth Symphony (Stalingrad) by Shostakovich were performed for him.
After the Leader staged his coup twenty years ago the first thing he did was to occupy the radio station and force them to interrupt their programming to broadcast military marches. Those marches still remind him of that glorious day. State functionaries always make sure to whistle them while they march or carry out their tasks—see one of them as his cheeks expand and contract to the rhythm of the marches that he recalls in his mind; now imagine him as he purses his lips and blows, imitating the horn.
In reality they are emulating the Leader, who has become accustomed to whistling marches. Those who whistle sappy love songs have no place in the Leader’s entourage. What good does it do for the radio to play songs about romance and infatuation? It’s pointless, really, and just makes the masses more frustrated. If it ever became necessary to play a song about love, it would have to be a song about love for the Leader. All feelings must be oriented toward the Leader. Love, ardor and rapture, infatuation and affection, passion and ecstasy: they must all be reserved for the Leader. Wasting such emotions on a worthless young woman is nothing less than moral decay itself. Abandonment and estrangement, heartsick weeping on ruins, isolation and death—all are strictly taboo because they could be understood as unpatriotic. Estrangement could be misconstrued as coming between the masses and the Leader or be taken to mean that the masses have given up on their Leader—God forbid—so such words have passed out of popular music. For those who stay up past one in the morning one song was permitted just before the television signed o
ff for the night, “Up Late Alone,” by Umm Kulthum, but it could only be played on the condition that a picture of the Leader appear at the same time. Even staying up late must be on the Leader’s behalf, in order to secretly confide in his image, or else. But citizens should not stay up late. They should go to bed early with the goal of waking up in the morning to get a fresh start to build the homeland with ardor and vigor under the inspirational leadership of the Leader.
I heard a car approaching from behind me but I didn’t turn around because I could tell by the rev of the engine that it was being driven in a herky-jerky manner, a hallmark of the military security goons. My intuition did not fail me. The clumsy driver slammed on the brakes and the car screeched to a halt beside me. It was one of their unmarked cars, which they would drive around without any number plates. Three goons in civilian clothes hopped out of the back seat wielding machine guns. Their stubbly chins, rumpled clothes and bodies reeking of sweat gave them away. They looked as if they had just been awakened from troubled sleep. I did not stop for them the way that a citizen is expected to do. Instead, I kept walking and made them hurry after me, calling, “Stop … I’m coming … for you!!” I stopped, and by the time the three of them surrounded me, I noticed women and children were watching us from their windows.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Come see the boss for a minute,” one of them said.
He was referring to the olive-skinned man with a thick moustache sitting in the passenger seat. The boss watched me with inquisitive eyes as I moved closer. The three goons surrounded me, placing me at the center of a triangle. The boss addressed me from inside the car. One of the three goons squeezed my neck and forced me to bend down to the window.
“What are you doing around here?”
“Just visiting someone in the neighborhood.”
“And who is this someone?”
“My mother.”
“Why aren’t you at the march?”
“I’m not an employee or a student, not a Party member or a union rep, not—”
“Identification,” they said, interrupting me abruptly.
“Some Comrades took it away from me about an hour ago.”
“Name.”
“Fathi Sheen.”
He raised his eyes toward me, stared at me hard and demanded, “The writer, Fathi Sheen?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
Switching on the walkie-talkie and moving it to his ear, he told me, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Why’s that?”
“Don’t talk back when the boss is talking to you,” one of the three upbraided me.
The boss made a gesture and two of the three men yanked me away from the window. Apparently he didn’t want me to hear the conversation he was conducting in a hushed voice. From the movement of his lips I could see him mention my name more than once. After he switched off the walkie-talkie they moved me back closer to him. He remained silent for a moment and then said, without looking at me, “You have to come down to military security at nine o’clock.”
He gestured to his men to let me go and they got back inside the car. Before they took off I asked him, “What about my ID?”
“You can sort out your situation with the Comrades later on.”
The car raced off like a shot, leaving streaked tire marks on the asphalt. I looked up and spotted the same eyes watching what was going on before the women and children retreated further inside. What is it this morning? I asked myself. I’m already mixed up with the Comrades, now military security too?
The roar from the television sets grew louder as the masses began to shout with intense enthusiasm for some reason or another. The announcer nearly broke out in tears from all the emotion. I felt bad for not being at my mother’s or at Lama’s watching what was happening. By the way, I haven’t had a television ever since I gave mine to one of my friends as a wedding present. I don’t regret that at all. I got rid of it because I got bored with all the marches and the Leader’s speeches, with everything they show nonstop.
I walked toward the streets that were clogged with the masses and that divide the city in two. I had to get over to the other side where Lama lives. With every step I took the roar in the atmosphere grew louder. It was the very same roar I heard coming from everyone’s television. I think the sudden shouting of the masses was due to the Leader’s surprise appearance. He would often come out to greet the people unexpectedly, sending them into a bizarre tizzy.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why had the military security officer said that? In order to answer that question, let me tell you a bit about myself before I get to Lama’s.
Lama and I love each other but we have not got married yet. Even though we both want to, Lama is still tied up with the consequences of her previous marriage. Her husband, a businessman, refuses to finalize their divorce despite the fact that they have been separated for many years. One time he went on a business trip to Asia. When he came back Lama had a dream that caused her to wake up in a panic. She dreamt he had not been on a business trip at all but had gone on a honeymoon with a second wife whom he had married in secret and who was actually his personal secretary. In her dream, he and his secretary were having a beautiful honeymoon on a Spanish beach. When Lama woke up, though, she found him deep asleep next to her, exhausted from the sex they had just had. She found it curious that he had not been up for it at first (despite his long absence and her caresses that I know are amazing and can make iron weep), but after several attempts she finally wore both of them down. Apparently the sex disoriented her and helped her subconscious mind discover the reason why, by driving her to have that dream. Naked, she got out of bed and searched his pockets for his passport. On a page that was covered with entry and exit stamps she found a Spanish visa. The Spanish exit stamp was for the day he had returned home and the same night they had had sex. That night she slept on the couch in the living room and in the morning she confronted him with what she had discovered. He denied it at first but eventually confessed that he actually had married his secretary, pleading that he had had no choice in the matter because she was the niece of a senior Party Comrade and marrying her was going to help him take care of business affairs more quickly, instead of getting bogged down in routine, denial and delay.
Lama was not going to let a second wife share her husband. Anyway, her husband had betrayed her, stabbed her in the back. She grew to hate him, which made it impossible for her to live under the same roof with him, and so she went to live with her family for a while until she finally bought a flat on a quiet side street on the other side of town using money she had saved in a private bank account. During the same year in which Lama was liberated, my father died, and I moved out to live in my own flat (which my mother had bought for me). That was when the anger of the government came crashing down upon me.
At one point during that year, while I was in the studio getting ready to record my weekly literary program on Channel One, the producer’s assistant came in and handed me a scrap of paper from the station’s administration asking me to stop recording at once and to come immediately to a meeting with the director of cultural programming, who handed me another piece of paper, which he had received by fax from one of the security services and which criticized my program because I had not mentioned the Leader recently. As I slowly read the note I felt myself approaching a crossroads. I sipped my cup of coffee and smoked in order to buy myself some time. I had to look out for my daily bread but at the same time my reputation as an independent writer was on the line. My program discussed recently published books and for each episode I would meet a writer to talk about his or her new book. The program also used to hold short-story and poetry contests, earning the respect of writers and viewers alike because of my insistence on integrity and on applying standards with precision and neutrality.
I asked the programming director what he thought I should do and he proposed holding a contest for stories and poetry about the Leader
and his accomplishments. I refused. Straight away and without asking why he asked me to hand in my resignation, claiming that every television program, no matter what, should be true to the principles and the person of the Leader. I wrote out my resignation, signed it and handed it over to the station’s administration. Then I went back down to the studio. As I said goodbye to the director and the technicians I received a phone call from the administration informing me that, pursuant to my request, they had accepted my resignation. They didn’t stop there, though; they wanted me to give up journalism and literature altogether. Misfortunes and obstacles fell down on me once they decided to stop mentioning my name or my works in all the national media. Later a directive was sent to the censorship committees with the order not to approve any new publication of mine, not even if it were a children’s book. Finally they expelled me from the writers’ and journalists’ union, claiming I owed two years’ worth of back dues. They ordered some Comrade writers to attack my books and slander me personally, calling me the “unpatriotic” writer because I had insulted the Inspirer of the Nation and the Compass of Humanity, as they put it. It came to my attention that one of the writers—Comrades all—who had been brought together for a conference on some national holiday or another got up and shouted for my downfall. Some of his colleagues joined in, spasmodically shouting, Down! Down! Down!
And so I was brought down. But I won Lama, who started to hate the Comrades and love their victims because her husband had stabbed her in the back by secretly marrying one of their nieces just to serve his business interests. Lama and I had met at the house of a poet friend of mine, one who had also refused to write poems glorifying the Leader, by the way, and so was blacklisted too. When Lama walked in I felt as though the two of us had come to our mutual poet friend’s house precisely in order to meet. We talked alone in the corner. She asked me what was new and told me how she used to watch my television show and that she read one of my books. When I told her I had stopped writing, she grew intrigued and launched a barrage of questions to find out exactly why I had stopped. At that point she asked me to walk her home and we ended up strolling for two hours, talking about everything except her problems. I could feel her sympathy for me. The next day I visited my poet friend again to ask him about her and he told me the story of her businessman husband and his secretary, the Party Comrade’s niece.