The Republic of False Truths

by Alaa Al Aswany

  The shaky pictures followed one another in Danya’s mind. She saw herself next to the bloodstained body, reading from a copy of the Koran that was open on her legs and stopping reading when the tears prevented her from seeing the letters. Along with the pictures, she recalled mingled sounds—screams and cries and wailing. Her voice, as she read from the Koran, seemed strange to her own ears, as though it was coming from someone else. Her colleagues kept coming in and out of the room and shouting and weeping and bending over Khaled and kissing him. After a little while, one of her colleagues approached her and said in a low voice, “Khaled’s father is here.”

  31

  Ashraf Wissa appeared, the next day, in Tahrir Square. His presence among the demonstrators seemed somewhat unusual and symbolic—an aristocrat in his fifties with smooth white hair parted in the middle and elegant, classic clothes (woollen suit, roll-neck pullover, English shoes). Ashraf looked a little as though he’d been resurrected from the past, a man of yesteryear, an actor of a past generation come to announce that he was joining the youth of the revolution. Ikram accompanied him. She’d dispensed with her headscarf and wore jeans and a black wool sweater. She had trainers on her feet, had gathered her smooth hair into a ponytail, and her beautiful face, without make-up apart from mascara and a touch of light-coloured lipstick, was plain to see. The odd thing was that her new look erased all traces of her social origins. Apart from a few letters that she pronounced in a low-class way, anyone who saw her would have thought she was a government employee or a university student. Ashraf circled the square time and again, listening to the speeches and debating with the demonstrators who had occupied it. He expressed his opinions with enthusiasm and in decisive tones: “The revolution could have accepted compromise before the authorities started killing demonstrators. Our duty to the martyrs compels us to depose Mubarak and put him on trial.”

  His appearance excited the curiosity of some. On such occasions, he’d look at them, smile, and say, “Listen. First, I’m a Copt. Second, I was an ordinary citizen who had nothing to do with politics till I saw the killings. I saw a young man of my son’s age killed in front of me.”

  Everything in the square was organised. Committees of young men and women were scattered at the entry points to provide security for the square, and they searched those coming in, of either sex, and checked their IDs. Provisioning committees were in charge of providing food, which didn’t stop hundreds of volunteers from bringing more with them; a volunteer would come in with hundreds of sandwiches and put them on the ground, invite those nearby to eat, and then disappear into the crowd. Media committees were in charge of contact with the press and with welcoming foreign journalists, and every now and then calls would be repeated over the loudspeakers asking for a doctor somewhere, or a volunteer to man one of the entrances. Tahrir Square had been transformed into a small independent republic—the first parcel of Egyptian land to be liberated from the dictator’s rule. Each of those who had taken up residence in “Tahrir” felt that he was realising some kind of ideal: each felt that the success of the revolution depended specifically on what he or she did. The main stage, where speakers made their speeches into a microphone provided with large loudspeakers whose echoes reached every part of the square, had been erected by their own efforts. On either side of it, the organisers had sat the mothers of the martyrs—pitiable middle-aged ladies in black over whom a mournful silence hung. Each had placed on her breast a large photograph of her martyred son and would gaze at those around them almost pleadingly, as though they might be able to bring their children back. Before anyone spoke into the microphone, the organisers would ask them to shake hands with the martyrs’ mothers—a gesture perhaps intended to make the speaker understand that the revolution would never abandon the rights of those who had given their lives for it. The Mubarak regime sent groups of public figures one after the other to the square to convince the revolutionaries to end their sit-in and go home. The occupiers refused to listen to them and chased them away, despite which they didn’t stop coming even for one day. At the corners of the square, day and night, there were speechmakers talking to groups of people. Once, Ashraf said to Ikram, “You know, the square reminds me of Hyde Park.”

  She looked at him questioningly, so he went on, “Hyde Park is a park in London. Anyone who wants to say anything goes there and speaks and people listen.”

  “Even if they speak against the government?”

  “Even if they speak against the Queen, or Our Lord.”

  “God forbid! You mean they’re unbelievers?”

  “It’s their right.”

  “And the government leaves them alone, as though it’s normal?”

  “What’s it supposed to do? Kill them?” he asked her, laughing. Then he felt ashamed of his sarcasm and said seriously, “In decent countries, the government protects the rights of its citizens to freedom of belief. Everyone chooses the religion they please, or becomes an atheist, but the point is, the citizen has rights.”

  Those occupying the square were from all classes—aristocrats from the Gezira Club, Zamalek, and Garden City, low-class Cairenes and peasants from the Delta, Upper Egyptians, women both veiled and unveiled, bands of young football “ultras” and other fans, the last two playing a decisive role in defending the revolution. They were organised and very fit and had a long experience of resisting the assaults of the security forces. Ashraf made their acquaintance and learned from them how the square was organised. They took him to the office of a travel agency that had been turned over to the revolution by its owner, where he met the head of the coordinating committee and the person primarily responsible for the organisation of the square, Dr. Abd El Samad, a professor at the Faculty of Medicine who was over seventy. He was calm and extremely well-mannered and his face was friendly and peaceable. Ashraf introduced himself and said simply, “I want to help the revolution.”

  Dr. Abd El Samad muttered a few words of welcome, then his face took on a practical expression and he and Ashraf exchanged phone numbers. As he said goodbye to him, Dr. Abd El Samad said, “Thank you again. I’ll phone you soon.”

  Thereafter, the square would witness, on a daily basis, the presence of Ashraf and Ikram, as they loaded hundreds of sandwiches and cartons of mineral water into the car and left them next to Qasr El Nil bridge, where the young people would take charge of distributing them to the occupiers. They brought everything that was needed by way of medical supplies, medicines, gauze, and cotton wool, as dictated to Ashraf by the doctor in charge of the field hospital in the Omar Makram mosque and which he would go with Ikram to buy from the medical supplies companies on Qasr El Eini Street or Giza Square. Ashraf also, at the request of the committee, welcomed the foreign journalists who flocked ceaselessly to the square and would take them around, explain to them what was going on, and answer their questions. They were impressed by his elegant appearance, broad, friendly smile, and command of English and French. The French newspaper L’Observateur even published a full-page article entitled “The Rich Copt Who Joined the Revolution.” When the journalist took his photo, Ikram tried to move away, but Ashraf took hold of her hand and insisted that she remain by his side, and she appeared wherever the pictures were published. From the first day on, Ashraf had introduced himself, with fatherly affection, to the young Copts who had defied the warnings of the church and joined the revolution, among them a youthful priest who held mass in conjunction with the Friday prayer. The scene was awe-inspiring that day, the priest standing next to the sheikh on the main stage while thousands of Muslims and Copts, all carrying copies of the Koran or crosses, gathered. The sheikh gave the Friday sermon, then the priest gave his sermon and the prayer was held, followed by the mass. Finally, at the invitation of those on the stage, the occupiers in their thousands sang the national anthem “My Country, My Country,” many bursting into tears. Even the dozens of foreign correspondents standing behind their cameras were moved and looked s
erious and sincere, as though the spirit of the revolution had touched them as they conveyed to the world this “unique human experience,” as they described it. Once the mass was over, Ashraf took Ikram by the hand and they set off for the Zahret El Bustan café. On the way, she asked him, in a low voice, “Do you think, Ashraf Bey, that Our Lord accepts the prayers of Muslims and Copts together?”

  He stopped walking, gazed at her, and said, “Our prayers here today, with one another, are better in the Lord’s eyes than any prayers made by the sheikhs and priests who take their orders from National Security.”

  She looked down and started walking again, an expression of reassurance on her face. One word from him was enough to convince her of anything. To her, he was both her lover and her teacher, who always knew what was right. While they were crossing the square, Ashraf heard a voice calling to him, “Mr. Ashraf!” He thought the voice sounded familiar and turned and found Asmaa running towards him. Without thinking, he opened his arms to receive her, hugged her, and said with excitement, “Asmaa, I’m so happy to see you!”

  Panting, she replied, “I’m happy, and proud to see that you’re with us in the square.”

  Ashraf laughed and said, “You’re the reason, Asmaa, because you convinced me.”

  He now noticed a young man next to Asmaa whom she introduced with the words, “Mazen Saqqa, engineer.”

  Ashraf turned to Ikram and introduced her, saying, “This is my friend, Ikram. And this is Asmaa, whom I told you about.”

  The four made their way to the café, and Ashraf disappeared for a few moments, to return bearing bean and falafel sandwiches. They sat and ate and talked. The conversation between the two women began slowly and cautiously, as though they were animals sniffing each other curiously, but the tension soon disappeared and they talked as affectionately as two old friends. Asmaa’s innocent appearance, and her clear attachment to Mazen, ensured that any trace of jealousy on Ikram’s part was erased. At the same time, Asmaa’s love for Ashraf extended to Ikram, as she could see that there was some bond between them. Mazen said to Ashraf, “I’d like to thank you for rescuing Asmaa.”

  Ashraf laughed and said, “I’m the one who should thank her, for changing my life, as you can see.”

  “The revolution has changed us all,” Mazen said, as though speaking to himself.

  Mazen spoke to Ashraf about his struggle at the factory, saying apologetically, “My circumstances don’t allow me to be in the square. I have to be with the workers.”

  “Your struggle at the factory is no less important than the struggle in the square,” Ashraf responded.

  In his heart of hearts, Ashraf felt guilty. He told himself, “Here’s this young man who isn’t yet thirty waging a serious struggle for workers’ rights while, when I was his age, I was looking for fun and pleasure.” The following day, Ashraf, with Ikram’s approval, opened the block’s ground-floor flat and cleaned it out with the assistance of a group of young people from the square, and it became a base for the revolution. The last person to rent the flat had been the owner of an electrical appliance shop who used it as a storeroom. The young people got rid of the remains of wires and empty cardboard boxes and took a whole day to clean it, opening the windows, which had been closed for a long time. Ashraf put three beds for the injured in one room, stored medical supplies in another, and bought a large refrigerator for the food and medicine. Also, in the large room, he put a table and chairs for meetings of the coordinating committee, which Ashraf Wissa now attended at the invitation of its head, Dr. Abd El Samad, and with the approval of its members. How proud he felt sitting with the members of the committee at the first meeting! There were representatives from the youth movements—Enough!, April 6, the National Association, the Revolutionary Socialists—and public figures. After the meeting, Ashraf left to give Dr. Abd El Samad a lift and asked him, “You’ve been kind enough to place great confidence in me, even though you’ve only known me for a couple of days. How come?”

  Dr. Abd El Samad smiled and said, “Most of us didn’t know one another. It was the revolution that brought us together.”

  Then he fell silent and squeezed Ashraf’s hand, as though embarrassed by his emotional speech.

  Ashraf Wissa’s life had changed to a degree that astonished him. He’d wake up at his usual time and, after the ordinary morning rituals, go down with Ikram to the square, from which they wouldn’t return until night. The strange thing was that he’d lost his enthusiasm for the idea of writing a book and cut down on the amount of hashish he smoked—just two cigarettes to get going in the morning and a few before going to sleep, though sometimes, during the day, the desire for a joint would seize him and he’d sneak off to his flat and smoke one. He thought often about the change that had come over him. He had been drowning in a sense of frustration and lack of self-worth, and then he’d found himself in a real battle, waged by young people the age of his children, young people who believed in their cause to the point that they were prepared to die for it. He asked himself whether, if he hadn’t been living in the vicinity of Tahrir Square and if Asmaa hadn’t taken refuge in his flat and if he hadn’t seen the killing with his own eyes, he would have sympathised with the revolution. He didn’t know the answer. Magda, his wife, lived with him in the same place and she’d been hostile to the revolution since day one. After a week, she’d phoned him and said with a sarcasm that was not without bitterness, “I hear you’ve opened the ground-floor flat to the kids from the revolution.”

  Angrily, he replied, “They aren’t ‘kids.’ They’re respectable young people.”

  “I can’t believe that you’d bring the Brotherhood into our house.”

  “I’ve told you a hundred times, the young people in the square aren’t Brothers.”

  “Even if they aren’t, they want to destroy the country.”

  “The country’s already been destroyed and they’re trying to fix it. Anyway, you left the house and went to your family, so it’s none of your business.”

  They exchanged more angry words, and then she ended the call, muttering. He was speaking to her from his study. When he left the room, he found Ikram in the living room. She looked at him with that enquiring, almost motherly glance that always allowed her to fathom what was going on in his mind.

  “You looked annoyed,” she said, smiling.

  “Not at all,” he said and lit a joint. She asked him quietly, “Was that Madame Magda who phoned?”

  He hesitated a little and then nodded. “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  “She’s angry that I fixed up the ground-floor flat for the young people.”

  “How did she find out?”

  “The neighbours must have told her.”

  “So now what?”

  “Now nothing. We quarrelled.”

  Ikram fell silent for a moment, then said in a low voice, “You know what? You ought to visit Madame Magda and make sure she’s okay.”

  “I don’t want to visit her.”

  Ikram said nothing more, and he looked like an embarrassed child. Then he embraced her and said, “My darling, Madame Magda doesn’t care whether I visit her or not. We went on living together because we couldn’t get divorced, no more, no less.”

  In a tone that swung between coquetry and playfulness, Ikram said, “It’s none of my business, my dear sir. You’re the one who doesn’t want to visit his wife.”

  He brought his head close and whispered in her ear, “I suffered for years with Magda till Our Lord recompensed me with Ikram.”