The Republic of False Truths

by Alaa Al Aswany

  General Alwany waved to the distant private, who hurried to him. He ordered another cup of coffee and a bottle of water, and the minister asked for a glass of tea. General Alwany waited until the private was out of earshot, then said, “I’m not going to talk about the developments. I’m sure you’re in the picture. We are, unfortunately, paying the price for a delay in the political decision-making process. The service of which I have the honour to be the head has submitted two reports to His Excellency the President, one two months ago and one a week ago, in which we predicted the events that are taking place today, and we proposed a number of measures to abort them. Unfortunately, not one was taken.”

  The minister nodded his head sadly, and General Alwany continued, saying, “The provocateurs who are leading everyone in the squares today number no more than five hundred individuals, whose names and details we have presented in full and whose immediate detention we proposed, though, unfortunately, nothing happened.”

  “Why, sir?”

  General Alwany looked at the minister in what seemed like sorrow, and said, “The furthest extent of my authority, politically speaking, is to present reports and offer proposals. Decisions are taken by His Excellency the President alone, based on considerations of which he is the best judge.”

  “Would that His Excellency the President had acted on Your Excellency’s proposals!”

  “What’s done is done,” General Alwany responded. “Let’s stick to what matters. I want to hear from you.”

  The private brought the drinks. The minister sipped his tea and said, “I had hoped to learn your assessment of the positions of the political forces.”

  “Such as who?”

  “The Brotherhood.”

  “The Brothers have issued a statement condemning the demonstrations and they’ll never run the risk of taking part in them, because the price will be exorbitant. For them, the most important thing is the safety of their organisation. However, if, God forbid, we were to lose control of the situation, the Brotherhood will for sure take to the streets to exploit the chaos. Have you detained some of their leaders?”

  The minister nodded, and General Alwany said, “Leave them in prison. They could be a useful card up our sleeve.”

  “And what about the political parties?”

  “The parties are all cooperating. They’ve all issued statements against the demonstrations.”

  Nodding, the minister said, “I sent Your Excellency Plan 2000.”

  “I read it. You did well to send it via the secret email without the ministry’s stamp. We’re going through exceptional circumstances. We mustn’t leave a paper trail.”

  “I’ve taken a few measures outside the plan. I’d like to go over them with Your Excellency.”

  “Please do.”

  The minister extracted a small piece of paper and began reading in an official tone:

  “Strengthening of the security details on vital installations and public figures loyal to the regime.

  “Securing factories and workers’ gatherings and impressing on our sources the importance of informing us of any attempt to incite the workers to action so that these may be dealt with immediately.

  “Concerning schools and universities, these will be closed anyway because of the half-year holiday. Security details have been strengthened and any student who attempts to incite his colleagues to unrest will be arrested.

  “Dozens of informers have been planted wherever demonstrators get together so as to get a clear picture of their lines of thought as they are adopted, accompanied by attempts to lure the lead elements out of the demonstrations and arrest them.”

  General Alwany nodded his head and said, “These are all sound measures.”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency. Your Excellency has comments on the plan? I think of Your Excellency as my teacher.”

  The general appeared to think, then shook his head slowly and said, “The plan is excellent. What matters when it comes to implementation is the time factor. Every hour counts.”

  “Absolutely, Your Excellency.”

  “What matters to me is that the plan’s philosophy should be clear to everyone who carries it out. Each officer must believe that he is in a real battle to defend Egypt. I want leaflets from the ministry distributed to every officer and every man in the ranks. They have to understand that the kids in Tahrir are a bunch of treacherous conspirators whose goal is to bring the country down.”

  The minister nodded and, rising from his seat, General Alwany continued excitedly, “Rebellion and demonstrations are something strange to the nature of Egyptians. They are an obedient people who have always respected their leadership even when angry with it. What is happening in Tahrir is something foreign to the Egyptian mentality. Our goal is to send a message to the Egyptians that the only outcome of the demonstrations will be chaos. Our goal is to tell the ordinary citizen, ‘Either you side with the demonstrations and lose your security, or you side with the state, in which case it will protect you.’ ”

  “I quite understand, Your Excellency,” the minister said in a low voice.

  General Alwany sat down again, looked into the distance, and appeared to be organising his thoughts. Then he asked the minister, “Are you going to cut telecommunications?”

  “I gave instructions to cut telecommunications on Thursday, before the demonstrations on Friday. Cutting the mobile network and the internet will deny the saboteurs any means of communicating. Meanwhile, the ministry’s communications network will continue to operate by code.”

  General Alwany’s face showed signs of approval. Then he leant close to the minister and said, their conversation now changing to a whisper, “There are initiatives in the plan that are against the law. I agree to them, naturally. ‘Necessity makes the unlawful lawful.’ But we have to secure the officers against any legal consequences.”

  “The officers have oral instructions,” the minister replied, “to use live ammunition to control the demonstrations. There isn’t a single piece of paper to prove that they have been issued with bullets. The issue recorded in the books is for cartridges and tear gas, that’s all.”

  “Does the plan allow for the opening of the prisons?” General Alwany asked.

  “That will be done only in case of our failure, God forbid, to control the demonstrations.”

  “Understood. How many prisons will you open and what will be the number of escapees?”

  “We’ll open about five and the number of escapees will be between twenty-five and thirty thousand. Of course, as set out in the plan, the goal is to create panic among the Egyptians, so they side with the state against the saboteurs.”

  “Do you have legal cover?”

  “It will be presented as an attempt at an uprising in the prisons to which the officers responded, but that there was an external power that helped the prisoners to escape.”

  “Wonderful. But there’s an important point to consider. The officer who all his life has believed that it’s his duty to guard the prisons. How can you suddenly convince him that he should let the prisoners go?”

  The minister smiled and whispered, “I’ve formed a group of the most loyal officers inside the ministry. This group takes its orders from me personally and they exist everywhere, though their colleagues know nothing about them. Officers from this special group will open the prisons. The other officers will think that what’s happening is an ordinary uprising.”

  “Very well, but suppose that the ordinary officer actually opposes the opening of the prison and prevents it?”

  “Your Excellency, if we are obliged to open the prisons, the prisons will be opened. My instructions to the special group officers will make it clear that they are not to allow anything to obstruct this, no matter what the reason.”

  General Alwany said nothing and appeared to be weighing what he should say to the minister, wh
o continued, in a serious tone of voice, “Your Excellency, we are defending the Egyptian state; we are in a state of war. Even if there should be victims in any quarter, it will be the price of the survival of the state.”

  “One final point,” General Alwany said. “The media.”

  “My instructions to state and private media are clear. They have to explain to the people the enormity of the plot. I’ve sent a supervising officer to control content on every channel, with the authority to stop any programme and arrest any person he sees fit.”

  There was silence. Then the minister of the interior asked, “Does Your Excellency have any further observations?”

  General Alwany shook his head and said, “No. Thank you.”

  “Then, with Your Excellency’s permission, I shall return to the ministry.”

  General Alwany rose, shook the minister’s hand warmly, and said, “Stay in touch, and Godspeed!”

  21

  Panting, the waiter cried, “We have to close the restaurant!”

  “Why?” Ashraf Wissa asked in alarm.

  “There are huge demonstrations in the street. The owner just phoned and ordered us to close immediately.”

  Despite the surprise, Ashraf felt relieved. He removed his hand, leaving the piece of hashish in his pocket, safe and sound. Then he paid the bill, leaving the waiter a generous tip. He left the restaurant, Ikram with him. On the street, things were tense. It was jam-full of cars, pedestrians were hurrying in all directions, and shouted slogans could be heard echoing in the distance. In a low voice, Ikram said, “Lord protect us! I’m afraid. Could you put me in a minibus, sir?”

  “Minibuses won’t be any use now,” Ashraf said, pulling her by the hand. He noticed a taxi close by, negotiated with the driver, and gave him the fare in advance. Then he put Ikram in the rear seat and said in a loud voice, “As soon as you reach the house, let me know you’re okay!”

  She looked at him and squeezed his hand, as though to convey her gratitude. He took a photo of the taxi’s rear number plate and kept his eyes on her, an encouraging smile on his face, until it had disappeared into the traffic. He decided he’d walk home, so he crossed the bridge leading to Qasr El Eini Street. He saw throngs of demonstrators calling for the fall of Mubarak, and, observing them with astonishment, asked himself, “Who are these people? Where have they come from, and how did they take to the streets in such large numbers? What’s going on in the country?” The demonstrations took him completely by surprise. He didn’t use Facebook, which he considered a waste of time, and had stopped reading the papers or listening to news broadcasts years ago.

  On reaching Tahrir Square, he found it crowded to the limit. They were ordinary Egyptians, from all the different classes: women with and without headscarves, young middle class people, plebeian types, and country people wearing traditional robes. They were standing in circles holding animated discussions. He wanted to hear what they were saying but it occurred to him that he might be searched at any moment and that he had a piece of hashish in his pocket large enough to guarantee that he’d be thrown into prison for years. He went home quickly and made himself a cup of coffee without sugar which he sipped, smoking a joint and following from the balcony what was going on in the square. He received a message from Ikram on his phone reassuring him that she had reached home. A little later, his wife Magda arrived. He greeted her unenthusiastically; her face was thunderous. She heated food and they sat down at the table. He sensed that she wanted to discuss the events and he was enjoying, to some degree, ignoring her. Minutes passed and then he said, chewing, and determined to provoke her, “The food’s delicious. Thank you, Magda.”

  She replied with annoyance, “Thank Ikram. She’s the one who did the cooking.”

  He continued to eat with appetite. Unable to bear his silence any longer, she said, angrily, “Did you see the demonstrations?”

  “I did.”

  “I’m afraid for Egypt, Ashraf.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “The chaos.”

  “Could things be any more chaotic than they already are?”

  She looked at him disapprovingly and said, “You don’t understand, or what?”

  He replied sarcastically, “Do help me!”

  In an agitated voice, she replied, “These demonstrations have been set up by the Brotherhood, and their aim is to take power.”

  “Not true. The people I saw in the square aren’t Brotherhood.”

  Terrified, and as though she hadn’t heard him, she cried, “If Mubarak leaves power, there’s no way we can stay in this country!”

  He replied quietly, “Speak for yourself. I will never leave Egypt.”

  She gave him an angry stare and shouted, “Go on living your delusions.”

  “You’re the one who’s sick, with your fears.”

  “You’ll find out I was right when it’s too late.”

  He didn’t reply. He knew it was pointless to argue with her. He got up from the table, patting his lips dry with the edge of the napkin. Then he said, “Please excuse me. I have work I have to finish in the study.”

  “It must be something urgent!” she responded.

  She was mocking him. What she wanted to say was “What work, when you’re a failure and a dope-head?” He didn’t have the energy or the desire for a quarrel. He felt that a great change was taking place around him and wanted to be free to watch and understand. He went into the study and then sat on the balcony and observed the square. The crowds kept increasing and armoured personnel carriers stood at the entrances, while hundreds of Central Security troops surrounded the square on all sides. He thought of Ikram and smiled as a feeling of tenderness swept over him. He recalled her childishly exaggerated attempt at elegance, her whispered words, the warmth of her hand, and her decency when she asked him to walk her to the minibus: she’d wanted to hail a taxi, but hadn’t asked him to do so and had made do with expressing her fear. How could an uneducated woman, from an utterly deprived background, who had received no real upbringing, behave with such refinement? Were people born with their character traits or did they acquire them? How could Ikram, a girl from the streets, be more emotionally intelligent than Magda, graduate of the Mère de Dieu and the American University? He felt a sudden chill and returned to the bedroom, where he put on a heavy woollen dressing gown. Magda had gone to sleep, so he moved carefully so as not to wake her. He returned to the balcony and smoked a number of joints while he watched the square. He lost any awareness of time. The number of demonstrators continued to increase and about forty minutes after midnight, the gates of Hell were opened. The police let loose a hail of tear-gas shells. He saw demonstrators running in all directions. The thick smoke formed a cloud that made it impossible to see and that reached as far as the fourth floor, and he felt a burning in his eyes and nose and started coughing hard. He went in quickly, closed the balcony door, then hurried to the bathroom and began washing out his mouth and nose with warm water to get rid of the remains of the gas. He heard a sudden sound, as though the doorbell had been rung. He listened for a moment, and the bell rang again. Who could be visiting at this hour? He crossed the hall and went up to the door. Looking through the peephole, he saw before him a woman he didn’t know.

  22

  Dear Mazen,

  I’m going to tell you something you don’t know about me. I suffer from a chest allergy that is so severe that when the dusty winds blow in spring, I have to use an inhaler to breathe. When they fired gas canisters at us with such intensity, I ran with all my strength and had to make an extraordinary effort not to lose consciousness. They struck from three sides, and the only direction that was open was Talaat Harb Street. I ran towards it and then discovered that they’d set up roadblocks in the street to catch demonstrators. The first was at the Diplomatic Club corner. From a distance, I caught sight of the police goons viciously beating a demonstrator an
d throwing him into a minivan. I found myself in a tight spot: if I went back, I’d choke on the gas, and if I went on, I was sure to be arrested. One of them noticed me and ran towards me. I quickly entered the first block of flats, next to the Crystal bakery. I ignored the lift and climbed the stairs as fast as I could till I found a flat whose lights were on, on the fourth floor. I had no other option, so I pressed the doorbell, and an old man came to the door. I said, “I’m a demonstrator and the police are going to arrest me. Please take me in.”

  It was a difficult moment. The poor guy was overwhelmed by astonishment, but I didn’t give him a chance. I entered and closed the door behind me. Then I showed him my ID card and said, “My name is Asmaa and I’m a teacher,” and while he was examining my ID, I said to him, “Please, let me stay here until the police leave.”

  The man began to take in what was going on. He turned off the light in the living room and said in a low voice, “Come. Please come with me to the study.”

  He looked different. You’d think he was ancient, something of a relic—a pasha from the old days, for example, or a veteran actor who’d emerged from a black-and-white film. Slim and handsome, his face dark, with the wrinkles of age, and his hair smooth, completely white, and parted in the middle, like in the forties. He was wearing a woollen checked dressing gown with a roll-neck pullover under it. I knew that he was a Christian from the statuette of the Virgin at the entrance to the living room. Everything in the flat spoke of beautiful classical taste—the luxurious leather furniture set, the pictures hung on the walls, and the wooden, English-style desk. He shook my hand and said, “I’m Ashraf Wissa.”

  I said, “I’m very grateful to you, sir, for saving me.”

  He smiled, nodded, and avoided looking at me, as though my thanks had embarrassed him. He asked me what I would like to drink. I wanted to drink tea. He made two cups of tea and sat down at the desk. There was an elegant, aristocratic stamp to everything about him—his clothes, his walk, and his way of speaking. I felt that his face was known to me, so I said, “I think I’ve seen you somewhere before, sir.”