The Republic of False Truths

by Alaa Al Aswany

  He informed me that he was an actor and listed some of the small parts he’d played in a few TV serials. To be honest, I was amazed. The man seemed to be rich, so why would he play bit parts?

  I said to him, “I suppose you think of acting as a hobby, sir.”

  He replied, “To me, acting is both a hobby and a profession. I’m a graduate of the American University, Drama Department.”

  “It must be nice to be able to combine talent and study.”

  “That’s true, in theory. But in Egypt, it isn’t easy for an actor to get an opportunity, even if he deserves it.”

  I noticed that he was a heavy smoker. After a little while, he seemed to get over the strangeness of the situation and he looked at me in a friendly manner, smiled, and said, “Pleased to meet you!”

  “Me too, Mr. Ashraf.”

  “Allow me to call you Asmaa, without any title. You’re about the same age as my daughter, Sarah.”

  “Please do.”

  “I’m going to be frank with you, Asmaa. You’re a respectable teacher and you look as though you come from a good family. I don’t understand why you’d expose yourself to all these troubles.”

  “If everyone thinks about his own safety, the country will never get set to rights.”

  “You mean you’re ready to be arrested and go to prison?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why? For what?”

  “For us to be a decent country, with justice and freedom.”

  “You’re an optimist, Asmaa.”

  “Millions of Egyptians share my position.”

  He didn’t appear to be convinced. He said nothing for a while, then asked me, “Could you explain to me the goal of the demonstrations?”

  I told him, “The goal is for us to force Mubarak to resign and then we’ll elect a new president and build a new, democratic state.”

  Hiding his sarcasm behind a polite smile, he said, “That’s all wonderful and we hope it comes about, but are you really sure that Hosni Mubarak can be made to resign by demonstrations?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Mubarak has the army and the police. What do you have?”

  “We have right on our side.”

  “Right isn’t always victorious.”

  “Ben Ali was a terrible dictator, but the Tunisian people succeeded in overthrowing him through peaceful demonstrations.”

  We had a long discussion. He wasn’t convinced by the idea of revolution but I felt that he respected my enthusiasm, somewhat. You know those nice characters who reject your point of view but never confront you with their rejection and beat about the bush and choose their words carefully so as not to upset you? Ashraf Wissa is one of those. He always behaves with sensitivity and grace. I liked him, not only because he saved me from being arrested but also because he always treated me with understanding and respect. Unfortunately, I made trouble for him with his wife. He kept looking out from the balcony to follow what was going on in the street and then suddenly I heard a woman’s voice calling to him from inside the flat. He went inside and after a while I heard the sound of a heated discussion. I couldn’t make out what was being said, but I realised that it was about me. Mr. Ashraf came back after a while, looking angry.

  I told him, “I’m sorry. If I’d known that I was going to cause you trouble, I’d never have knocked on your door.”

  He said to me simply, “First, you had no choice. Second, I’m happy to have made your acquaintance. Third, my wife and I are always at loggerheads and she’s a constant cause of annoyance to me.”

  I was amazed that he would speak so frankly. I got up and decided to leave. He blocked my way to the door of the study and said, “I cannot possibly allow you to go down. The street is full of police.”

  When I insisted, he threatened me, saying, “If you leave, Asmaa, I shall go down with you so that they arrest us both. Would you be happy to see someone my age being arrested and abused?”

  I will never forget that marvellous man so long as I live! What would make someone who didn’t know me, and wasn’t convinced in the first place of the value of the demonstrations, and who wasn’t at all interested in the cause I was defending, behave that way? Imagine, he made me cheese sandwiches and eggs with pastrami and kept on at me till I ate. Can you believe that he didn’t let me leave until six in the morning, after he’d gone down to the street on his own and made sure the goons were gone? Can you believe that he stopped a taxi for me and insisted on paying the fare in advance, and when I refused, he told me, “My dear Asmaa, do as you’re told! I’m old enough to be your father!”?

  I almost cry every time I remember his conduct towards me, not just because I’m moved by his delicacy but because I feel so guilty. Today I discovered that I didn’t understand the people. I feel embarrassed that I once said that the Egyptians were all either corrupt or cowards. I wish I could apologise to them one by one. Thank you, Mazen, for teaching me not to be in a hurry to judge people. I got home in the morning and found a big problem with my mother waiting for me that I’ll tell you about later. The bottom line is, I’m fine, thank God. Please let me know how you are as soon as possible. I thank you for the beautiful feelings that you expressed in the square. I’m smiling now, so that you can see the two dimples that you like.

  Goodbye, Mazen, my…friend (I was going to write something else but I was too shy).

  Asmaa

  23

  Danya prayed the afternoon prayer, then got her medical bag ready and took a last look at herself in the mirror before going down in the lift. Her mother was sitting in the hall, talking on the phone. She seemed tense. Danya kissed her head and sat down next to her, waiting for her to finish the call. Her mother looked at her and said, excitedly, “God protect Egypt, Danya! Your father phoned this morning. He’s been sleeping at work for the last three days and he tells me he doesn’t know when he’ll be back. There’s a big conspiracy against our country. They’re trying to drive us into chaos, may God be their judge!”

  Danya was in too dreamy a state to argue. She smiled, looked at her mother with affection, and said in an ordinary tone of voice, “I’m going out.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “The medical faculty.”

  “The faculty’s open on a Friday?”

  “Yes. The faculty has opened an emergency clinic to give first aid to the injured.”

  Hagga Tahany’s face took on an angry expression, and she said, “You’re going out to give first aid to those kids in the demonstrations? What have they got to do with you?”

  Danya was confused for a moment. Then she said, “As doctors, it’s our duty to treat the sick, whoever they are.”

  “Sheikh Shamel says that the kids in the demonstrations are ‘seekers of discord and sowers of corruption on the face of the land.’ Are you aware that the punishment for them in religious law is execution?”

  “I have nothing to do with the demonstrations. I’m a final-year medical student and it’s part of my training. The faculty sent out a call and told us to treat anyone who was wounded. It could be a demonstrator or it could be an officer or a police recruit.”

  Hagga Tahany fell silent and Danya rushed to speak before she could, saying, in a tone of voice that she knew would make an impression on her, “On the day of resurrection, when I stand in front of Our Lord, Glorious and Mighty, would you want me, Mother, to be carrying on my back the sin of having left an injured officer or recruit whom I could have saved to die?”

  After a number of sentences of this kind, along with citations from the Koran and the Holy Traditions, her mother began to seem convinced and asked her daughter, “Shouldn’t we tell your father that you’re going out?”

  Sensing danger, Danya said, “There’s no need to make him anxious. There’s nothing to it. I’m going to the faculty for two hours and will have the driver
with me. He’ll take a route that avoids the demonstrations.”

  Her mother phoned the driver and gave him instructions, then recited a religiously acceptable spell over her head, gave her her usual goodbye kisses, and whispered, “There is no god but God,” to which her daughter responded, “Muhammad is the Messenger of God.”

  Seated in the back of the car, Danya reflected that she hadn’t lied to her mother, though she hadn’t told the truth either. True, there was a field hospital to treat the injured, but it had been set up at the request of the students and some of the teachers, not by the faculty administration. And true, she was going to the faculty, as she had informed her mother, but she was going to transfer from there, with her colleagues, to Tahrir Square, where the field hospital was located. The thought that she was performing her professional duty protected her from feelings of guilt. She had given her father an undertaking that she would never do anything that would harm his position, but she was just going to give aid to the injured, no more, no less. It was her duty as a doctor to offer treatment to any who needed it. She smiled as she went over in her mind her long phone call with Khaled the day before. He’d told her, “You refused to take part in the demonstrations. That’s your right, but your duty as a doctor requires you to help the injured.” Had she been convinced because his logic was sound, or because she wanted to be with him?

  The driver let her out in front of the Qasr El Eini gates, where she found Khaled, two of the professors, and around twenty of her fellow students, young women and men. They were wearing white coats. She knew them all and was reassured by their presence. She greeted them warmly. She noticed that Khaled looked haggard, so she asked him anxiously, “What’s wrong with you? You don’t look well.”

  Smiling, he said, “I haven’t slept since yesterday.”

  He asked her to put on a white coat and told her that they were concerned about letting the security forces know that they were doctors doing their duty. Unthinkingly, she asked him, “Would you like to come in the car with me?”

  He laughed and said, “My dear Madame Danya, no one goes to a demonstration in a Mercedes.”

  She looked at him reproachfully, and he told her seriously, “We’re going to go to the square on foot.”

  She asked the driver to wait where he was and set off with Khaled. They crossed the bridge and marched down Qasr El Eini Street. She exchanged laughing comments with her colleagues, in which he took no part. “What’s on your mind, Doctor?” she asked him.

  He smiled and said, “I’m not thinking about anything. I’m dreaming.”

  “Is it a nice dream?”

  “Very!”

  “May I know what it is?”

  “I’m dreaming that the revolution has been successful.”

  Jokingly, she said, “So when you dream, all you dream about is the revolution?”

  “In the dream, I see you next to me.”

  “I don’t believe you. You dream about revolution and that’s it,” she exclaimed coquettishly, but he moved closer to her and said, “Danya, you will be with me forever, in my dreams and in real life. I’m lucky to have met you, and I’m lucky to have witnessed the revolution and taken part in it.”

  She was too moved to speak. At that moment, she longed to hold him and take his head onto her breast. She wished she could tell him she loved him and would never leave him, that she could make it clear to him that she was prepared to fight the whole world to realise their dream of marriage. She wished she could imagine their home, and how many boys and girls they’d have and what their names would be. She turned her face to the side to hide her emotions. The demonstrators on the march began chanting “Bread! Freedom! Social Justice!” People on their balconies and at their windows clapped and some of the women let out trills of joy that added an air of celebration to the demonstration, while the demonstrators began waving to those standing on the balconies and calling out, “Countrymen, join us!” and “Egyptians, to the streets!”

  The march quickly began growing in size as it drew closer to Tahrir Square. Danya was gripped by what was happening around her: she felt she was dreaming, as though she’d entered a magical world she’d never known before. She looked at the faces of the demonstrators. They were ordinary people, like the ones she treated at Qasr El Eini. Where was the great conspiracy that her father had talked about? Had all these people taken money from abroad? Were the women making their trills of joy on the balconies CIA agents? Did religion permit the killing of these demonstrators, as Sheikh Shamel had ruled? Did Islam permit the murder of those who called for justice?

  The crowd of demonstrators had become so thick that it was hard to find a place to put one’s feet. Danya was careful to stay next to Khaled. Being next to him made her feel safe. She looked back and found she could no longer see the end of the crowd. The slogans rang out like thunder: “Bread! Freedom! Justice for All!” “The People…Demand…the Fall of the Regime!” She didn’t call out with them, not just because she was concerned for the welfare of her family but because she felt, in her heart of hearts, that it would be absurd and dishonest. Could the daughter of General Ahmad Alwany call for the ousting of a regime of which he was one of the most prominent pillars? When she found herself at the heart of the crush of demonstrators, she remembered her father’s words about the security services that were watching her and was overtaken by a feeling of guilt, which she struggled to overcome. Even if they photographed her in the midst of the demonstrators, she was wearing her white coat, didn’t join in with them in their slogans, and was performing her duty as a doctor—she clung to this comforting idea but, deep inside, wasn’t convinced by it. She wasn’t there just to help the injured but because she wanted to be with Khaled. Plus, there was something real and honest about the demonstration, which had begun, little by little, to affect her feelings. If she were from an ordinary rich family and her father and her brothers didn’t hold important positions, would she have joined in the demonstrations? Probably, yes. The sense of justice has nothing to do with being rich or poor.

  The organisers of the demonstration decided to put the doctors at the front, and the demonstrators fell back, so that the whole of the first row was made up of doctors, male and female, in white coats. They entered Tahrir Square, which was surging with the amazing throngs of demonstrators, who passed between heavy, broad pieces of metal with pointed projections like stakes that the demonstrators had put in the street to stop police vehicles from entering the square. Danya was advancing with her colleagues when suddenly she heard a terrible unceasing roar, after which the air quickly filled with thick gas. She felt a burning sensation in her eyes and nose and began to find it difficult to breathe. “Hold steady!” shouted one of the demonstrators.

  She felt afraid, coughed violently, and was soon completely unable to see through the thick smoke. Khaled took hold of her hand, pulled her towards him, and shouted, “Come this way!”

  They retreated far from the source of the gas. She kept choking. She found herself in the middle of a group of demonstrators who had been obliged to fall back because they couldn’t take the thick gas. They stood all together by the wall of the American University, and her colleagues began handing out pieces of cotton soaked in vinegar and bottles they’d filled with a salt solution and on which they’d mounted spray heads. Danya inhaled the vinegar and then washed her face and nose with the solution, felt better, and began helping the demonstrators around her. After a little while, a police car appeared, moving fast towards the square, but it stopped in front of the pieces of metal that were scattered over the street. The officer was sitting next to the driver. He stuck his head through the window, looked angrily at the demonstrators, and shouted, “Move the metal from the street!” None of them moved, and one of them shouted, “We won’t move it! You’re going in there to kill our colleagues!”

  24

  That night, Ashraf tried to explain the Asmaa situation to his
wife calmly, but she blew up, the traces of sleep making her face look bad-tempered and fierce.

  “I don’t want Muslim Brothers in my house!” she shouted.

  “I told you, the girl isn’t a Muslim Brother. She was in the demonstration, and the police were going to arrest her.”

  “I don’t give a damn!”

  “Don’t you have any pity? She’s a respectable girl who works as a schoolteacher, and she’s the same age as our daughter Sarah. How could I let her be arrested?”

  “A respectable girl doesn’t go on demonstrations in the first place.”

  “Magda, the girl came to me for refuge and I couldn’t give her up. Can’t you understand that?”

  She looked at him and realised that he’d never budge from his position, so she muttered something inaudible, returned to her room, and went back to sleep. For the next two days, Ashraf avoided her totally. She tried to talk to him about the demonstrations and to lure him into telling her what had happened with Asmaa but he’d answer her with curt, vague phrases, then withdraw. He was well aware that any conversation with her would cause problems and he didn’t have the energy for a quarrel; he needed to be alone and to think. The succession of unexpected events had created within him an acute tension that he strove to overcome with hashish. He was now discovering that for years he’d been living in isolation and hadn’t noticed that everything in Egypt had changed. He’d been hemmed in between his flat, which constituted his small, closed universe, and his pointless, bitter battles in the acting world, and now he suddenly found himself before a different kind of Egyptian. These Egyptians were, as Asmaa had said, entirely prepared to go to prison, and even to die, for the sake of justice. He contemplated them with a mixture of disbelief, admiration, and guilt. On Friday morning, he was surprised to find Magda entering his study carrying a small suitcase. In a loud voice and official tones, as though informing him of a judicial decree, she said, “I’ve decided to go and stay at Mama’s in Heliopolis.”