“Save me, Hagg! I’ve been beaten and insulted, and I want my rights!”
At precisely the same time, Basant was making a phone call to her friend the general, who advised her to proceed immediately to the October police station and there make an official complaint against Nourhan, as well as requesting a medical examination to document her injuries. On arriving at the police station, Basant found the station chief waiting for her so that he could take her statement personally. She was also able to obtain a medical report to the effect that her injuries required treatment for at least twenty-one days, a finding that required the prosecutor’s office to refer Nourhan for trial. The two women disappeared from the channel, and the oldest of the male presenters took Nourhan’s place, apologising to the viewers and telling them that she had had to take a week’s holiday owing to work-related exhaustion. The channel’s staff enjoyed themselves going over the incident numerous times, at different rhythms and with amusing additions and comments, and in the end found themselves faced with the question that mattered most: which of the two women would emerge from the war victorious? No one testified in support of Basant. Those who did appear before the prosecutor asserted that Madame Nourhan had been the victim of a mean and uncivilised assault by Basant. Most of the staff were certain that Nourhan would win, because her husband was the owner of the channel and his influence within the state was solid, not to mention that he was “like a ring on her finger” that she could put on and take off as she pleased. This group rushed to announce its absolute support for Madame Nourhan, praising her morals and her devotion to her religion. They also hinted that Basant was known for bad conduct and surrounded by deep suspicions as to her morals, which their piety prevented them from mentioning, given that, in keeping with popular belief, they didn’t like to talk about women’s reputations in case someone someday should impugn those of their own daughters. They knew that every word that passed their lips would reach Madame Nourhan and attract to them her benevolent regard. Some staff members did believe that Basant might win because her friend was a general with State Security, but these took refuge in a prudent silence, not announcing their support for either side and remaining neutral, anxious to avoid the worst scenario, given that their sole concern was to put bread on the table and raise their children, no more, no less.
The women kept up their pressures on the general and the hagg and word went around that the general had activated contacts at the highest level to demand the restoration of Basant’s violated, unavenged rights. Hagg Shanawany’s response was slower, perhaps owing to the wisdom granted him by his advanced years or perhaps because he knew that his wife was the aggressor. Nourhan did not, however, give up, and after she had screamed and wept, and shown him her injuries (on her marvellous legs), she decided, for the first time since they had got married, to deny him his conjugal rights. Thus, after Shanawany had returned from Friday prayers and they’d had lunch and he’d preceded her to the bedroom, Nourhan donned a nightdress, put on her make-up as usual, but then lay down beside him in a strange state of despondency. When he extended his hand to fondle her breasts and inaugurate the encounter, as was his custom, she moved away and said, with the fury of one wronged, “Sorry, Hagg. I can’t. I know that the Messenger, God bless him and grant him peace, said that the woman who refuses her husband in bed will pass the night cursed by the angels, so please, forgive me. I don’t want the angels to curse me.”
With the last words, her voice quavered and tears shone in her eyes, and the hagg was moved to tell her, with a tenderness mixed with arousal, “Darling, calm yourself.”
At this, Nourhan could no longer contain herself and burst into tears, repeating, “I have been insulted, Hagg, and dragged through the mud, and you haven’t got me my rights.”
The message was clear. Nourhan would never give up her feud and would take it out on Shanawany at just that moment of pleasure he looked forward to the whole week. And, because the solution to any conflict reflects the relative strengths of the competing powers (to employ the language of political science), a compromise was reached whereby, in return for her giving up her case against Nourhan, Basant’s services at the channel would be dispensed with but she would be compensated with a job at another channel with the same salary and privileges. Nourhan made a show of being displeased with this solution, but realised, given her intelligence, that it was the best that could be achieved: on the one hand, the general, with his influence, could have Basant appointed to any other channel anyway, while, on the other, Nourhan considered that she had won, as she had expelled Basant from their channel after first beating her and dragging her honour through the mud in front of everyone.
The incident would remain fixed in the minds of anyone who might have thought of being cheeky to Nourhan, who called a meeting of the staff on the first day of her return and spoke about work-related matters in an ordinary fashion without alluding in any way to what had happened. (She believed that this mysteriousness would enhance the awe with which she was regarded.) The period after the battle would also see intensified activity on the part of the Authentic Egypt channel, under the leadership of Nourhan, who was called into the office of the supervising officer, who said to her, “Starting next week, I want you to do a segment called ‘The Blacklist.’ ”
Cheerfully she asked, “And who would you like to have on it, sir?”
The officer looked at her almost with reproach and said, “This segment may be the most important you ever present. There is a group of public figures who took part in the 25 January conspiracy. Most of its members have international contacts and are known around the world, from which it follows that it would be difficult for us to arrest them at the present time. We want to inform public opinion that they are traitors and agents of foreign powers who have taken money to destroy the country. The rest is up to you, Madame Nourhan.”
Advertisements for “With Nourhan” began to appear the next day, announcing the new segment: “Watch out for ‘The Blacklist’!” Nourhan didn’t have to expend any effort in putting the segment together: everything came to her prepared with precision by the supervising officer. Nourhan would read the written paragraph from the autocue, while pictures of the opposition figure in question, in the company of foreigners, appeared. Then she’d say, “We shall now listen to proof of the treason.” A recording of a telephone call between the same figure and a foreign person would then be transmitted. This would then be cut off and she would read, “We have now heard with our own ears the traitor speaking to an official of the CIA.”
Nourhan added her own touch at the end of the segment: she agreed with the director that the camera should zoom in on her face, which would show deep emotion, and that she would then smile and say, “Dear viewers, I find it difficult to imagine that anyone could betray Egypt. For what are you betraying your country? For dollars? For a job? For international prizes? Is it nothing to you that Egypt gave you food and drink, raised you and educated you and made you a human being? Traitor! Despicable wretch! Dear viewers, I ask of you one thing: should you see any of these traitors, let them know that you reject their treachery! Tell them, ‘You are a traitor!’ May God forgive us all!”
She went to the officer to ask for his opinion and he laughed out loud and said, “Bravo, Madame Nourhan! If you keep this up, not one of them will be able to leave his house. People will beat them with their shoes in the street!”
63
My darling Mazen,
Whether I die today or live a hundred years, I shall never forget what happened yesterday and shall always hold it in my heart and head. I shall remember the low lighting in the entrance to the flat and the sound of the music (you told me it was a piece by Chopin, right?). I shall remember shaking your hand before I left. Everything appeared normal but suddenly I felt a strange and violent trembling. Then I saw your face coming close to mine and I became aware of the scent of your breath. Then I found myself embracing you and kiss
ing you—it felt as though it was the kiss of a lifetime, as though it erased all that went before so that we could begin a new page in our love. What amazed me was that I felt no shyness at our kiss. On the contrary, I was proud of it. When I left your place, I wanted to stop people in the street and tell them, “I kissed my darling Mazen.” I’m going to let you in on an amazing secret now: at the moment when you kissed me, I was totally prepared for you, like a rose that has opened and is ready to give away its nectar. If you had pulled me inside, I would have followed you in total obedience and given myself to you and been happy. I swear I wouldn’t have felt an instant of regret because I actually consider myself your wife. I am yours and you are mine, even if we haven’t registered our love at the Civil Registry. What is the value of official papers? They are proof of legal rights but they are not proof of love. You may have felt what I was feeling at that moment when I embraced you so hard, as though seeking refuge with you from everything in this aggressive, stupid world that pursues us. I am certain that you controlled yourself so as not to make my life even more complicated than it already is. It’s what I expected of you—always noble and gentlemanly. I am still living that moment, Mazen. I shall remain in it forever because I shall love you forever.
You asked me yesterday about my father and mother. I told you that I love them, of course, but that I had had no choice but to leave the house. I couldn’t abandon the revolution, or live under surveillance. And worse than all that was what my father said about God having used me to afflict him. I felt very sorry for myself. What had I done that my father should consider me the cause of his problems? Is it because I’m honest, with myself and with others? Is it because I rose up, like millions of Egyptians, for the sake of justice and freedom? What I didn’t tell you yesterday is that my father and mother went that evening to a relative of my father’s to offer condolences for a death. I had prepared everything, so I took my suitcase and left the house. I left a note for my father that I stuck on the refrigerator door in which I said, “Dear Father, I cannot abandon my colleagues who are dying for the revolution, and since you say that I’m a disaster with which God has afflicted you, I have decided to relieve you and leave your life for ever. Goodbye.”
Can you believe I was crying as I left the house? I gave it one last look, as I don’t know when I shall return. I don’t regret my decision. I shall phone my mother to confirm to her that I’m well but I shall never go back to them, ever. I went to my girlfriend Asmahan’s, on Murad Street—I don’t know if you remember her. She’s a teaching assistant at the Media Faculty, Cairo University, and a member of the National Association. I took my suitcase. We’d made arrangements over the phone and I found her waiting for me. I took out my clothes and put them in the wardrobes, then took a shower and had a coffee with Asmahan. Then I felt that I had to see you. I couldn’t wait. I wanted to see you, no matter how, as though I needed to draw strength from you. You were the one who could reassure me that I was doing the right thing. I phoned you but you didn’t answer, so I had two options: go to the factory or to your house. Of course, the house was closer, even though the likelihood of your being there was slight. I had to put up, naturally, with the stare of the waiter in the café downstairs when I asked him about your flat. He looked at me as though I were a prostitute. I didn’t get upset. It’s part of the stupidity that we rose up against.
Let me tell you about my new living quarters. The flat consists of a living room, a small kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms. Asmahan sleeps in one and she’s given me the other. My new room is spacious and clean, and the window looks out over the zoo. The building is old and luxurious, and Asmahan tells me that the small flats like hers were what the rich in the past rented to hide their mistresses in. I started imagining my room, and one of the feudal landowners meeting a dancer there in the forties. You know me, I have a fertile imagination (I still haven’t shown you my short stories). Asmahan comes from a rich family from Tanta, and her father, a doctor, rented this flat for her. He must be an enlightened person because he let his daughter study whatever she wanted and live on her own, even though they’re always visiting her. I woke up early today and went to the sit-in that has moved from Muhammad Mahmoud to in front of the cabinet building. The Military Council insists on staying in power. Following the massacres it carried out, it opened Mubarak’s cupboard and brought out a mummy called Ganzouri to be prime minister. We moved to the cabinet building to prevent this prime minister from the old regime from entering his office. One hour spent with my fellows who are conducting the sit-in convinced me of the truth of what you said, Mazen. This revolution will be victorious, God willing. Everyone you know sends greetings. They know you’re fighting a difficult battle at the cement factory. This morning, I met Ahmad Harara. Can you believe he never stops smiling? I took a good look at him. From where does he get that strength? According to normal calculations, this young man has lost everything. He was a successful doctor from a comfortable family. He lost one eye on the Friday of Rage. Then he took to the streets again, on Muhammad Mahmoud Street, and lost his other eye. His professional future is over but he’s still optimistic and he’s still smiling. We cannot be defeated as long as we have people like Harara among us. He asked me to say hello to you, by the way, and to tell you, “Hang in there!” I left the sit-in and went to school with mixed feelings. After I left home yesterday and met you and joined my fellows at the sit-in, I felt stronger. I no longer care what the teachers say about the revolution. Let them say what they want. As I told you yesterday, “We’re on the way in and they’re on the way out.” We’re the ones who are going to change Egypt. I taught my classes as usual, and the strange thing is that none of the teachers made any problems for me, as they have been doing recently. I’d expected that they’d talk about the sit-in at the cabinet building and accuse me of treason, and this time I was completely ready to answer them and silence them with my arguments, but no one said a word. It seems they’re scared of me. Can our psychological state be transmitted to those around us even if we say nothing? I’m now at my best, psychologically, and completely optimistic. I feel free because I’m not obliged to go home early and I’ll never have to lie again. I feel happy because I love you and you love me. I’ll spend the evening and part of the night with our colleagues at the cabinet building. We will never accept the appointment of a prime minister from the regime against which we rose up. It’s unthinkable. We will bring this Ganzouri down and force the soldiery to go away and we will form a civilian presidential council to last till the presidential elections. I believe, like you, that our revolution will be victorious. Do you know what I wish for now? To kiss you the way I did yesterday.
Bye, darling.
Asmaa
64
Despite a few cries of objection, the young people were able to show the video in full. The audience consisted of about fifty people. Some were seated and some were standing but all watched the film to the end. The lights were then turned on, and the young man standing next to Ashraf Wissa said into the microphone, “I thank you for giving us the opportunity to present the truth. Once again, I stress that we are not against the army. All we are demanding of it is that it put all the individuals who committed these crimes on trial, whether they gave the orders or carried them out.”
“How do we know these pictures are real?” shouted out a stout man wearing a galabiya. “They could be completely fake.”
The young man replied, in a calm, clear tone, “We have the full names of the victims. They’re on our website, with telephone numbers for anyone who wants to contact their families, whether to offer their condolences, or to help them, or to confirm the truth.”
Voices rose posing other questions, but the young man didn’t respond. This was all the discussion that was allowed. The second part of the mission consisted of taking down the marquee as quickly as possible and loading it onto the truck, while the young men outside ensured the security of the withdrawal to the cars.
The planning had been precise and was well thought out. The scouts had spent a full day exploring good places for the show. These had to be well frequented but not extremely crowded, and without a lot of traffic, so that there wouldn’t be any problems. It also had to lend itself to the provision of security for the withdrawal after the show. In the evening, the scouts would return and propose a number of places, one of which would be selected. On the chosen evening, young people would be awaiting the campaign in the chosen place so that they could warn off their colleagues if anything untoward occurred. The erection of the marquee took place with the utmost speed and care was taken to avoid getting into any discussion that might lead to a clash. While the marquee was being put up, curious citizens would always turn up and ask insistently, “Who are you and what do you want?,” to which the young people’s response was always short and polite: “We are volunteers who are setting up a cultural seminar.” If they were asked, “What’s the subject of the seminar?,” the answer would be, “Come, and you’ll find out.”
There was no objection to exchanging light-hearted comments with these curious onlookers so long as no specific information was given to them.
The Republic of False Truths Page 38