As soon as the marquee was ready, Ashraf Wissa would introduce the show because his age, smart appearance, and refined manners made a good impression. During the showing of the film, the young people in charge of security would surround the marquee on all sides, to prevent any hooligans from entering. As soon as the show was over, the young man would make his closing statement and everyone would leave quickly. The element of surprise was the secret of their repeated success. Their calculations had been precise and correct. Informing the police and sending thugs would take two hours at least, during which time they would have shown the video and gone.
At the meeting held to launch the campaign, Ashraf said, “Our task isn’t to convince anyone. Our task is to present the truth and leave people to the dictates of their conscience.”
The campaign had a success even the most optimistic hadn’t expected. They were able to do ten shows in two weeks. They limited themselves to one show per day, to avoid any follow-up from the security forces. In the end, thugs would arrive, usually while the marquee was being dismantled or loaded onto the truck, but would find the young people’s security waiting for them. Most of these were ultras and had considerable experience of street fighting, and others had been chosen because they practised martial arts. The clashes with the thugs would continue until everyone had managed to load up the equipment and get into their cars. Then, finally, the young people would withdraw. The only possible mistake made by the campaign was to return to the neighbourhood in which it had started—Sayeda Zeinab. This time, the scouts had specified a place on Reda Street, a small street leading to Port Said Street. The scouts went, as per the plan, and found nothing to worry about, so they gave the go-ahead for the campaign team, which arrived. However, as the young people began unloading the chairs and poles for the marquee from the truck, they were surprised to see people emerging from the surrounding shops and approaching them. There were a number of car repair garages next to one another on the street as well as, on the other side, a place selling tyres and car batteries, and next to that an old-fashioned grocer’s bearing an ancient, battered sign on which was handwritten “Ali Salama and Sons, Groceries.” The people who emerged didn’t look like thugs from the security force. They looked ordinary and they didn’t ask the usual suspicious, inquisitive questions, but they surrounded the young people and their expressions were grim, their looks challenging and aggressive. The oldest of them, and the largest, was about fifty and wore blue workers’ overalls, while his hands were completely covered with grease. He went up to the young people and asked in a loud voice, as though launching into a stage role, “What do you want?”
The rest gathered around him as though waiting to see what the conversation would reveal. One of the young men said, “We’ve come to hold a cultural seminar.”
“Who are you holding it for?”
“For the people in the street.”
“Thanks, but we don’t want seminars.”
The answer was unexpected. The young man said nothing for a moment. Ashraf came forward, shook the man by the hand, gave him a friendly smile, and said, “Hagg, these are a group of young people who have a video that they want to show. If anyone wants to watch, they’re most welcome, and if not, that’s their business.”
The man answered, “We’re from the area. We don’t want seminars and we don’t want videos. Be so kind as to buzz off.”
Ashraf said, “May I know the reason?”
The man now shouted angrily, “Because you’ve come to insult the army and we’re for the army. Got it?”
The others standing around responded to the man’s words, their voices rising and mingling. One of the young people said in response, “We’re for the army too but there are people in the army who have committed crimes and they have to be put on trial.”
“And who are you, sunshine, to put the army on trial?” asked a worker.
Ashraf intervened, saying, “I’d like our discussion to be conducted respectably, if you please.”
“How come, when you aren’t respectable people?” one of the workers shouted.
Shouts of objection rose among the young people and Ashraf gestured to them to calm down. He was saying something, but the workers’ boss shouted again, “Look, son, and all the rest of you, the army can do what it wants. I swear to God, if anyone says one word against the army, I’ll cut his tongue out!”
Ashraf said, “How come, Hagg? Aren’t soldiers and officers humans who can make mistakes? So when they make mistakes, we have to hold them to account.”
The man took a step closer and shouted, “Tell you what…why don’t you buzz off? Pick up your things and say bye-bye. It’ll be better for you if you leave quietly.”
An angry murmur ran through the young people, and one of them shouted, “You don’t have the right to stop us from showing the video. The street belongs to everyone, it’s not your private property. We’re going to put on the show and if you don’t like it, don’t watch.”
As though the workers had been waiting for him to say this, they pounced as one on the youths and a bruising battle began. Some of the workers hurried over to the workshops and brought back tools and iron bars and began hitting the young people very violently, and one rushed forward waving a metal shovel and fell with all his strength on Ashraf. Ikram stretched out her arms to protect his head and screamed in a voice that resounded down the street, “Shame on you! He’s an old man, and sick. What kind of person are you? An infidel?”
65
Beautiful Asmaa,
I apologise. I wasn’t able to phone you because events have been moving so fast. The attacks on the trucks have increased an extraordinary amount. On Thursday, five trucks and their loads were stolen. The four-man committee took the decision to stop transporting the cement in trucks until we can provide security for them. Every truck that is stolen along with its cargo costs the factory tens of thousands of pounds in losses. Expecting help from the police or army is pointless. They simply do not want to provide security for the factory. The strange thing is that the head of the security company (whom you met at my house) vanished completely after we’d agreed to his asking price. I phoned him a number of times but he didn’t answer. I was surprised he’d disappear when he was in a hurry to complete the agreement. I sent him a message saying that convention required that he at least reply to me, even if he’d changed his mind. He responded with the following brief, weird message: “I apologise, Mazen. I cannot provide security for the factory and I cannot give the reasons. You’re into something very big. God be with you.”
I haven’t tried to contact him since. I found his response strange. What did he mean, “You’re into something very big”? He knew the magnitude of the security required and he assured me he had the capacity to do it. I was very exhausted so I decided to go home for a little while. Being at the factory always makes me very tense, which affects my thinking and my behaviour. When I feel like that, I go home and spend a night, or even just a few hours, and go back to the factory in good spirits. I went home, took a hot shower, and went into the bedroom in the hope of sleeping a little. I did indeed go to sleep, but I awoke to the sound of the telephone ringing (I keep it turned on, as you know, in case of emergencies). It was five in the morning. The workers informed me that the army had closed the factory. At first, I couldn’t believe it. Then I confirmed the news. Troops had closed the gates. The officers had kept a few engineers and workers to close down the furnaces and forbidden the rest of the workers to enter. They told the workers that the factory’s management had decided to close it because of the losses and the breakdown in security. At this point, the picture became clear to me. All the events I’d lived through passed before my eyes like scenes from a film that I was seeing in its entirety and understanding for the first time. I finally understood the meaning of the message from the head of the security company, “You’re into something very big.” I got dressed and hurried to t
he factory. I decided I’d go to the head of the military police. I found the officer on duty, a major. It was past 6 a.m. and he looked tired from lack of sleep. As soon as I broached the subject of the factory, he said, “The area commander took the decision to close the factory at the request of the Italian company.”
I asked him the reason. He smiled politely and said, “To tell you the truth, I didn’t bother to find out. This particular file is in the hands of the colonel. I think there’s a problem with providing security to the factory and it’s causing losses.”
I told him about the attacks on the trucks and said I’d presented a memorandum to the military police and nothing had happened. He responded with polite generalities. I realised that talking to him would get me nowhere. I shook his hand and left. It’s now almost seven. I’m sitting in a café here in Turah, behind the factory. Thank God I have the new laptop with me. I’m going to send the news about the closing of the factory to the movement’s media person. It has to be published in the largest possible number of papers and websites. We have to put pressure on management and the army using all possible means. I’m going to wait until the change of shift at 8 a.m. I’ll call on the workers to hold a sit-in in front of the closed factory. We will never surrender! When the morning shift workers come to start work, they’ll be surprised to find the factory has been closed. That’s when we have to start the sit-in. Can you believe that, despite the crisis I’m experiencing, I feel at ease, just because I’ve told you what happened? I feel that our love and the revolution mean the same thing: we share the same battle and the same trench. In a little while, I shall join the workers in our decisive battle, and we shall be victorious, God willing.
I love you.
Mazen
P.S. I’ve heard that the army is going to break up the sit-in at the cabinet building by force. Take care, and my greetings to all the colleagues.
66
Later, Ashraf and Ikram would often recall that moment. Divine providence saved them. The worker fell on Ashraf, who was able to leap out of the way, while Ikram raised her arm to protect him and received the blow—from the flat end of the shovel, fortunately, not the shaft. The two of them ran to the car, and Ashraf drove off at high speed, to escape. The worker didn’t chase after them but turned to take part in the fierce battle that was ongoing between the young people and the locals. Ashraf asked Ikram about her hand, and she assured him that it was fine. They went first to fetch Shahd from Ikram’s neighbours’ house in Hawamdiya; as soon as she was put into the back seat she went to sleep. When they reached home, they were silent. Ikram put Shahd down to sleep in her bed and made a cup of coffee, which she took to Ashraf in his study. Then she excused herself to change her clothes and take a shower. Ashraf smoked a joint and made several telephone calls. After a little while, Ikram returned, having put her hair up and wearing a housedress. Ashraf looked at her and said sadly, “They arrested three of the young people from April 6.”
“And the rest of them?”
“Three are injured and at Mounira Hospital and the rest went home.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Lawyers have been to see the ones who were arrested and there are others with the injured.”
“We should go and see them.”
“We must. I just need to think a little. What happened today was strange.”
“Not at all. They were government thugs, like all the other times.”
He lit another joint and said, “The people who attacked us today weren’t hired.”
Ikram thought and said, “You mean the government wasn’t behind them?”
He looked at her and said, “Unfortunately, Ikram, they attacked us on their own initiative. These were ordinary people who hate the revolution.”
Ikram remained silent, and Ashraf said in a low voice, as though talking to himself, “I understand why the rich hate the revolution: it threatens their interests. But the poor in defence of whose rights the revolution came about—how can they hate it?”
“Shall I make you another coffee?”
Ashraf nodded, but noticed for the first time that Ikram lifted the cup with her left hand. He asked her once again about her hand but she made light of the matter. All the same, he insisted on taking her to the Ramses Hospital, which was nearby. After taking X-rays, the doctor there told her, “You’re lucky the blow didn’t break your wrist.”
The doctor put a pressure bandage on her hand, and when they got home and as soon as they’d passed through the door, Ashraf hugged her and they lost themselves in a long kiss that ended in bed, where he tried hard not to bear down on her injured hand. The next day, Ashraf forced Ikram to take a rest and did the housework himself. He woke early, made sandwiches for Shahd, did her hair, and helped her get into her school tunic, then he took her to the kindergarten. Before leaving the flat, though, holding Shahd’s hand, he looked at Ikram, and said to her cheerfully, “If they ask me at the kindergarten, I’ll say I’m her grandfather, and if they insist on knowing my name, I’ll tell them that in our family we have Copts and Muslims, all mixed together!” He gave a loud laugh and went off with the girl. When he got back, Ikram came close to him, looked at him, and said, clearly moved, “Even if I were to serve you for the rest of my life, I wouldn’t be able to repay your kindness.”
Ashraf kissed her head and whispered, “I’m the one who should thank you, for so many things.”
During the days that followed, Ashraf kept up his non-stop activities. The committee continued its meetings and decided to postpone the video campaign for a few days so that what had occurred could be studied and avoided in the future. He went with the lawyers to visit the young people who’d been arrested and found that they were in good spirits. He visited the injured daily; two of the young people had left the hospital and one was still there, to be discharged the following week. He stopped taking Ikram around with him on his outings on the advice of the doctor, who asked her to reduce her activities until her hand was back to normal. One day, he came home close to 6 p.m. He let himself in with the key and found Ikram standing in the hall as though waiting for him. The moment she saw him, she said in a worried voice, “Your children are here.”
While Ashraf looked at her in astonishment, she whispered, “Butrus and Sarah are waiting for you in the reception room.”
67
Mazen left the café at seven thirty on his way to the factory, going over in his mind what he was going to say to the workers. He intended to say that the four-man committee that represented them had been the target of a plot by the Italian management, the army, and the police; he was no longer afraid of calling things by their proper names; the workers had to understand that the Military Council was heading a counter-revolution that sought to bring about the failure of the revolution in every sphere. What he said wouldn’t be hearsay. He had decisive evidence that the attack on the cement trucks was organised and that the security services had been negligent in protecting the factory. He would tell them about the complaints that he’d signed at the police station and the memo that he’d presented to the military police. He’d tell them that no one from the army or the police had done anything to save the factory. He mustn’t speak for more than ten minutes. After reviewing the plot in all its details, he’d call on the workers to hold a comprehensive sit-in in front of the locked factory. He’d call on them to bring their wives and children to the sit-in, as the workers of Kafr El Dawwar had done. The presence of the women and children would remind the regime that these would be the first victims of the closure of the factory and would make it difficult for the authorities to break up the sit-in by force: if they assaulted the women and children, their ugly face would be on display to the entire world.
Mazen had settled on what he wanted to do, but when he approached the factory, he saw a strange sight. Hundreds of workers were massed in front of a platform that had been set up in front of the main g
ate and some of the workers were standing on it. Uncle Fahmi was speaking into a microphone.
“We want to eat, and raise our children. They made problems and headaches for us and in the end the factory was closed. Who’s going to provide for our families now? We took the wrong road. All the members of the four-man committee are from the revolution and they want to put the country to the torch. We had rights provided by management. We could have asked for our rights politely and we would have got them, one by one, without problems. What we don’t get from management today, we’ll get tomorrow. What did the four-man committee do for us? They staged a revolution inside the factory and some of us, unfortunately, went along with them. We got involved in demonstrations and strikes until the factory was closed down and we lost our livelihoods.”
An excited cry rose from the workers. From the middle of the crowd, some of the workers who supported the committee began shouting, “Not true!” and “The workers have to take over management to get their rights in full.”
It was clear that those who supported the four-man committee had become a minority. Uncle Fahmi had been able to have an impact on most of the workers, and Mazen’s supporters stormed towards the platform, shouting, “Let Mazen speak!” and “We want to hear Mazen!”
Uncle Fahmi picked up the thread and said, his eyes roaming over the massed workers, “Chief Engineer Mazen Saqqa would like to speak? By all means! And what is Mazen going to tell you? He’s going to tell you we should have sit-ins and strikes. Again, Mazen? We’ve already seen where your advice gets us. The factory, as you can see, has been closed down and now we’re on the streets. Are you happy our children are going hungry? Have mercy on us, Mazen! Mazen, leave us alone to earn our livings. I want to ask you something, Mazen: Now that the factory is closed, who’s going to cover your expenses? Who’s going to spend money on you and the youth in Tahrir who turned the country upside down and left it in chaos? Even if Mubarak was corrupt, at least there was security. Now the thugs and criminals are everywhere and we’re afraid for our children. Our livelihoods have been cut off, so what are you going to do for us, Mazen? If you’re going to get money from abroad, bully for you, but we’re simple workers and all we have is our work at the factory. Get out of our hair, and no more problems! We want to open the factory so we can have money to buy things for our children.”
The Republic of False Truths Page 39