The Republic of False Truths

by Alaa Al Aswany

  The proposal was voted on and won by a large majority. Dear Lord Jesus, who would make proposals to expose the crimes of the Military Council? Ashraf Wissa, hashish-smoker and bit player, who withdrew from the world years ago? In his old life, it would not have been in his power to do, or even to imagine doing, any of the things he was doing now. How had he changed so much? What had made a new man of him? The answer consisted of one word: revolution.

  He went on at Ikram until she gave in and took one thousand pounds and gave them to her husband Mansour, telling him that she’d take Shahd to stay with her at Ashraf Bey’s because the security situation was bad and she was afraid for herself and her daughter, and that she’d pay him the same sum at the beginning of each month. Ikram told Ashraf that Mansour had snatched the money and looked at it in amazement, saying, “Thank you very much. Mind you don’t forget about me. You know there’s no work.”

  Ikram would always remember the day she took Shahd with her to Ashraf’s. She’d given her little body a hot bath, done her hair in two plaits, and dressed her in the shiny shoes and dress that she’d bought for the Feast, with knee-length white socks, and she carried the case that contained her few clothes and changes of underwear. When she opened the door of the flat, she found a surprise she’d never forget. Ashraf had hung up coloured balloons and bought Shahd chocolate and ice cream and a big, beautiful plastic doll. As soon as he saw Shahd, he hugged her and kissed her. The strange thing is that the child, who wasn’t four yet, hung onto his neck even though she’d never seen him before. The sight of the two of them was so moving, Ikram could barely contain herself. It was like a dream. Her family life had become complete in a house where she had started as a maid. That night, when they made love, she gave Ashraf her body without restraint, generously, almost gratefully. And when they were entwined and naked in the dark, she whispered, “Do you know, I was frightened today?”

  “Why?”

  “It’s true that I’ve suffered a lot of injustice in my life, but who’d believe that Our Lord would compensate me with so much? You’re too much for me, Ashraf Bey. I’m afraid Our Lord will take all this happiness from me and I’ll go back to being miserable. You know, if that happens, I’d rather die.”

  He was about to say something but instead hugged her and kissed her. He no longer needed to say anything, and the heat of his body confirmed to her that he’d always be with her. Each night, they went to sleep holding one another. She would wake at seven and slip quietly out of bed. She’d wake Shahd, give her her breakfast, and then take her to the nearby nursery school and come back to clean up the centre on the ground floor, and then the flat. She’d bought two pairs of gloves, at Ashraf’s request, to protect her hands from getting wrinkled when she was cleaning. And after cleaning up, she’d go upstairs to the flat, take a bath, and then get dressed and wake him. She’d look at him as he was sleeping, then touch his forehead and lips and kiss him gently, and he’d open his eyes and smile. He’d go into the bathroom while she made breakfast. After coffee and his morning joint, he’d go down with her to the centre and busy himself all day with the affairs of the square. She’d withdraw at noon to get Shahd from the nursery school and bring her back home, and he’d come back in the evening and find her waiting for him, with Shahd asleep in her room. They’d have dinner and perhaps watch television. She took pleasure in making herself up for him—putting mascara on her eyelashes because he loved mascara and rubbing cream into her feet and hands because he loved her to be smooth. They’d sleep together like a married couple. Now, he made love to her in a different way. The tense, sinful stealth was gone, to be replaced by the peace of mind of a man and wife who slept together without embarrassment or fear, with sure deliberation, tasting the pleasure slowly and with absorption.

  One day, when Ikram had gone to fetch Shahd from the nursery school and Ashraf was on his own on the ground floor, he heard a sudden knocking on the door. He opened it and found two of his neighbours who lived in his block of flats—an elderly Copt called Nessim who lived alone, following the death of his wife, and the emigration of his children to America, on the top floor, and a Muslim in his fifties called Ahmad Dendarawi who worked for the Exhibitions Organisation. They exchanged the usual greetings, and then the men began gazing at the revolutionary posters on the wall and the beds and the oxygen cylinders and the medical equipment. In the tone of one who has prepared what he is going to say beforehand, Dendarawi said, “Ashraf Bey, we’ve known one another all our lives, and we all love and respect you.”

  Ashraf smiled and said, “Thank you very much. I too have always held you in the highest regard.”

  With an unctuous smile, Nessim now said, “Ashraf Bey Wissa is the scion of noble parents. He’s always been taken as an example of taste and morals.”

  There was silence for a few moments, and Nessim looked at Dendarawi as though to urge him on. “As Your Excellency knows,” the latter then said, “we left the building because of the demonstrations, the gas, the beatings, and the general mess. We went to stay with our relatives. Some of us stayed in hotels. More nuisance. Now we’ve come back and we want to relax.”

  In support, Nessim added, “To be able to relax in his own home is the least of a man’s rights.”

  Ashraf nodded in understanding, having now begun to guess the purpose of the visit. Dendarawi went on, “Your Excellency has, of course, the right to be against President Mubarak, even if lots of people think he didn’t deserve what we did to him.”

  “Which reminds me, Ashraf Bey,” Nessim interrupted, “did President Mubarak harm Your Excellency in any way?”

  Ashraf replied vehemently, “Mubarak harmed the whole country and even now hasn’t been brought to account. He has to be tried for the crimes he committed against the people.”

  Dendarawi faked a smile and said, “You mean to say President Mubarak committed crimes?”

  Ashraf made an effort to control himself and said, furiously, “You want me to tell you Mubarak’s crimes?”

  “Whatever he did,” Nessim said, “we ought to thank him for keeping our country safe and protecting it from war.”

  Suddenly, Ashraf became aware of the absurdity of the conversation. In a loud voice, he said, “Look, Mubarak isn’t what we’re talking about. Is there any service I can do you?”

  Dendarawi smiled in annoyance, then looked at his companion as though making sure of his support and said, “Your Excellency has opened the ground floor to the young people from Tahrir. Naturally, that exposes us all to danger. A battle could take place at any moment inside the building. Gas could be thrown or bullets fired. I have my son living with me and he has children. I don’t believe Your Excellency would be happy to see any of us harmed.”

  “My situation is difficult too, Ashraf Bey,” Nessim said, in emotional tones, “as Your Excellency knows. I’m an old man and sick and living on my own. In other words, I’m expecting the angel of death at any moment,” which Dendarawi followed with, “God give you health, Uncle Nessim!”

  Ashraf suddenly felt distaste for the two men. Silence reigned, but Dendarawi went on in a low voice, to impress upon him the seriousness of the situation, “Anyway, it’s not just the residents who are affected. The shop owners are very upset and wanted to meet you, but when they learned we were going to talk to Your Excellency, they said, ‘We’ll leave it to you.’ ”

  “There are shop owners who’ve been affected?”

  “All of them, Ashraf Bey. The owners of the bakery and the furniture showroom, even the news vendor can’t work. The poor guys’ livelihood is at a standstill. And of course, the presence of the young people from Tahrir exposes both them and us to danger. To be honest, the shop owners had made up their minds to stop the young people from entering the building but, thank God, we were able to persuade them to behave sensibly.”

  “Don’t persuade anyone!” Ashraf said angrily. “Let anyone who wants to sto
p the young people try and see what’s coming to him!”

  There was silence again. Then Ashraf resumed and said, trying to master his anger, “Look, fellows. You’ve been my neighbours and friends for ages. But the fact is, I’m the owner of the building and I have the right to do with it as I want.”

  “So long as no harm results to the residents,” said Dendarawi, while Nessim took refuge in silence. Ashraf responded by saying, “So you’re concerned about harm to the residents but not about harm to the whole country? I have a question, Dendarawi. Didn’t the young people who were killed by bullets in the square have parents who were as afraid for them as you are for your children?”

  “God have mercy on the people who were killed in the square, but nobody told them to demonstrate.”

  “The young people died defending my rights and yours.”

  “I never asked anyone to demonstrate.”

  “You have a right to your opinion, of course, but unfortunately I won’t be able to comply with your request.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that this centre belongs to the young people of the revolution and no one can keep them out.”

  “In that case, Your Excellency must bear responsibility for any harm that befalls the residents,” Dendarawi said, angrily.

  Ashraf stood, signalling the end of the meeting, and said, “Thank you for coming.”

  Dendarawi asked, “So what are we to tell the shop owners?”

  “Tell them what I told you,” replied Ashraf, decisively.

  The two residents stood up, looking furious, and made their way towards the door. Suddenly, Dendarawi said in a loud voice, “By the way, give our best to Mrs. Ikram.”

  His tone carried an impertinent connotation, so Ashraf responded contemptuously, holding the door open as he did so, as though to hurry them out, “I shall do that. I shall convey your greetings to Mrs. Ikram. She’s getting the girl from the nursery school and then she’ll make food for the young people in the square.”

  Ashraf remained upset by this visit for the rest of the day and, at night, when he finally found refuge in bed with Ikram, he told her what had happened. She listened and said, “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing at all. I’m the owner of the building. Let them do their worst.”

  “You think they’re acting alone?”

  “No, of course not. Magda is with them and for sure they tell her everything.”

  “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

  Ashraf said, “Ikram, please. I told you not to be afraid. I’m with the revolution and I’m living with you in the sight of everyone. If anyone doesn’t like that, they can go to hell.”

  She wiggled her body over in the bed and clung to him so that he could feel her warmth, then hugged him in the dark and whispered, “Okay. Don’t get upset. I won’t be afraid.”

  The next day, they resumed their life as normal. Ikram woke him, he took a bath, dressed, and ate breakfast. Then, as he sat in his study smoking his morning joint over a cup of coffee, Ikram entered, looking flustered. He looked at her smilingly and asked, “What’s up, Ikram? Is there something going on?”

  “There’s a priest outside to see you,” she said, in a low voice.

  43

  Dear Mazen,

  I haven’t seen you for a whole week, but you’ve been with me all the time. When I heard about the hideous crime the army committed against those girls, I couldn’t believe it at first, but then, unfortunately, it was confirmed. Can you believe it? Seventeen girls stripped completely naked in front of officers and soldiers? Each one of them forced to open her legs so that the officer—the “Bey”—could examine them while the soldiers looked at her naked body and exchanged comments and jokes? All that humiliation as punishment for the girls’ asking for justice and freedom for Egyptians? I cried for a long time, Mazen, as I imagined myself in the same place as any one of them. Then I remembered your words. I remembered the revolutionary covenant that we took upon ourselves in the name of the martyrs. I remembered that the old regime wouldn’t give up easily and that it would go to extremes in committing hideous crimes. They want to break us but they will not succeed. The following day, I went to the school after not having slept all night. I finished my classes and set off for the centre, at Mr. Ashraf’s house, where we held an expanded meeting that included our colleagues from Enough!, April 6, the Alliance, the National Association, and the Revolutionary Socialists, as well as Mr. Ashraf, naturally. The man constantly dazzles us with his courage, wisdom, and devotion to the revolution. He’s the one who proposed bringing a case against the army, an idea that was carried by a large majority. A committee was formed, and I was chosen as a member, at my request. There are three of us on the committee—me, Asmahan Ali, and the lawyer Karim Ahmad. Our task was to meet with the virginity test victims and convince them to bring a case against the army. We were able to get hold of the telephone numbers of ten out of the seventeen girls and we’re still trying to get the numbers of the rest. The sad surprise was that the girls, once their honour had been violated, no longer wanted anything. Most of them refused to take part in the case. One of them, when I suggested the idea of bringing a case, gave the receiver to her mother, who asked me, “What do you want with her? Isn’t it enough that she went along with you till what happened happened! You want to make her more of an object of scandal than she already is? Don’t ever phone here again!”

  All the girls more or less gave the same answer: “We will not bring a case. The country belongs to the army and no one will ever win us back our rights.”

  I lost my temper with one of them and told her, “What happened to you could have happened to me or any girl from the revolution. By withdrawing, you’re giving them what they want.”

  When I heard her crying over the phone, I controlled myself and apologised.

  Only one girl, called Saida, was responsive to us and another, Nashwa, asked for time to think, which means that she may join us. Saida said her father had encouraged her to bring a case for restitution. The lawyer, Karim, believed if we brought one case, for this one girl, we could get restitution for all the girls, and they would probably join us in the case later on. The next day, the four of us—Asmahan, Karim, Saida, and I—met. We went to the public notary’s office and Saida gave Karim power of attorney. After that, we had no choice but to go to the Military Court building, S28, to file an official report. Imagine! Saida collapsed at the last minute and was unable to enter the building. Imagine, that a woman can be so abused as to be literally incapable of entering the building in which the abuse took place, even though she had come with us to present a complaint! We left her outside with Asmahan and I went in with Karim. We were met by a captain. When Karim presented him with the complaint, he asked to see Karim’s lawyer’s ID and he gave it to him. The captain read the complaint, then said, sarcastically, “This Miss Saida has a great imagination. She’d make a good writer of soap operas. It’s inconceivable that such things could have happened here.”

  I told him, “These things didn’t happen just to Saida. They happened to seventeen girls, and their honour was violated here and at the military prison.”

  The officer looked and me and said, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Saida’s friend.”

  “You don’t have the standing to speak.”

  I tried to object, but he said, “Silence, girl!”

  “Don’t call me ‘girl’!”

  “I can have you imprisoned immediately on a charge of being disrespectful to the office of the prosecutor. Explain it to her, Mr. Lawyer.”

  Karim persuaded me to stay silent so that things wouldn’t get out of hand and the officer insisted on my leaving the room, so I left. The officer officially received the complaint from Karim and in a few days we’ll know the date for the opening of the investigation. We left and met up with Saida and Asmahan. Now
we have a new problem, on which the fate of the whole case will depend. We have to have witnesses. When we thought about it, we found that those who witnessed the incident were either military personnel, and they of course wouldn’t testify for us, or the girls themselves, and most of them were, as I told you, broken psychologically and refusing even to speak of what happened. I will not despair, though, as you have taught me, Mazen. I’ll keep working with the girls to convince them to testify. Our aim in this case isn’t to hold the criminals who violated the girls’ honour to account. We’re not so naive as to believe that the military courts will condemn the army. Our goal, as Mr. Ashraf said, is to turn the spotlight on the case and, at the same time, raise the morale of the girls and free them of their feelings of shame. Our revolution continues and will prevail, as you have taught me. I love you.

  Asmaa

  44

  Uncle Madany went into the living room and found visitors—Sheikh Shamel accompanied by a fiftyish man, bald apart from a circular ring of hair that had been dyed black, who was carrying a medium-sized Samsonite case. He was wearing a smart black suit and a black tie (in sign of mourning) over a white shirt. Madany recognised Sheikh Shamel from the television and had listened to his lessons on the Right Path channel more than once. Madany shook hands with them and invited them into the guest parlour, where Hind asked them what they would like to drink and Sheikh Shamel asked for hot mint tea while the other man asked for a cup of coffee. The parlour was a cramped little room that was kept locked except for special occasions, and it contained a suite consisting of four armchairs and a sofa in feeble imitation of Louis Seize style. In the middle of the room was a table topped with white fake marble on which stood a blue porcelain bonbonnière. On the walls were Koranic verses, sayings of the Prophet, and a photograph of the Noble Kaaba. Madany’s reception of the two guests wasn’t effusive. He still hadn’t woken up completely and his mind was exhausted from the trip to the courthouse. At the same time, he found the visit strange, and this feeling was converted into a kind of stand-offishness and indifference. He welcomed them brusquely, then fell silent, gazing at them as though demanding an explanation for their visit. Sheikh Shamel apologised that the visit was so sudden. Madany muttered something curt. The sheikh looked at the man who was with him as though seeking his permission, then said to Madany, “Hagg Madany, let me introduce you to our worthy friend Colonel Hassan Bazaraa from public relations at the Ministry of Interior, one of the most knowledgeable and observant of our officers when it comes to our religion (we give precedence over God to none!).”