Egypt Rising

by Stan Schatt

  Mister El Haziz sat straighter in his seat as his eyes swept the roads on hyper alert. His nervousness was contagious, and I sensed Dad was nervous—something unusual enough to scare me.

  Mister El Haziz had his cell phone out, and he talked in rapid Arabic to someone who was equally excited. He grunted suddenly, slammed his cell phone down, then made a sharp turn and picked up speed.

  “My friend tells me there are many thousands gathered at the Qasr el-Nil Bridge, and a Central Security Forces personnel carrier is on fire.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  Dad spoke with authority and then leaned forward to make sure he heard every word.

  “Nothing. My cell phone went dead. The Government has cut off all communications.”

  I saw Dad reach for his cell phone so I pulled mine out as well. There were no bars even though we were right in the middle of the city.

  Mister El Haziz kept his eyes on the road as he sped through mostly empty streets. He muttered something in English without turning his head.

  “It’s started.”

  Chapter Six

  Our cell phones worked again in the morning, and the Government’s television station broadcast a steady diet of martial music interspersed with a news that minimized the demonstrations and described them as the work of a “few hooligans.” Dad called the school and announced it was still open, so we drove there together.

  School this day felt very different. I noticed that the Arabic-speaking students kept to themselves even more than usual. They whispered with obvious excitement and stopped talking when a Western student approached. Assuma lacked her usual smile. She told me that her father was planning on not opening his shop that day. That was highly unusual because normally he kept the little shop open six days a week from early in the morning until late at night.

  That afternoon I watched the back of Mister El Haziz’s head as the man concentrated on driving me home. Dad had told him to drive me directly to the apartment after school and to avoid the Islamic quarter completely even though it added to the driving time.

  I went to the library over my lunch hour and watched as a reporter on the Government television station reported that a number of people were arrested while others were in the hospital. I knew the reporter slanted her report to show the demonstrators in the worst possible way, but I read between the lines. I imagined thousands of people screaming for President Mubarak to step down and for death to all Israelis and their supporters. I pictured Mister Aziz, Neguib, and Abdul leading the mob.

  Mister El Haziz gazed at his rear view mirror as if he anticipated trouble. The car’s bulletproof windows didn’t help me feel any safer. I wished Dad were coming home with me but I understood why he felt it necessary to visit his friend at the university. The dig was all set to start and there were still last minute details to arrange.

  I spotted that same car that I thought I saw the other day, even though it hung back several cars behind us. One man talked on his cell phone while the other men drove.

  I pointed out the car to Mister El Haziz.

  “It’s been following us the last few days.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I saw the driver study the car through his rear view mirror.

  “It’s always at the school when you pick me up. It never picks up any kids,” I said.

  Mister El Haziz nodded. Suddenly he swerved into a nearby lane despite the horn blasts complaining. He changed lanes again and then turned off on a side street. He drove down several side streets until he finally connected with the highway and reached our apartment. I looked through the rear view mirror, but I couldn’t spot the car.

  “You tell me if you see the car at school tomorrow,” Mister El Haziz said.

  His face was grim. I nodded, opened the door, and walked into the apartment building. It was the only home I’d had ever known, and it always comforted me when I walked into the lobby. Something was wrong, though. It took me only a moment to realize Mister Fawny was gone. I stared at his empty chair, dumbstruck because he always was there. Where could he be? I noticed that his desk was clear. Mister Fawny always covered his desk with papers, food wrappers, and packages.

  My heart was beating much too fast as I took the elevator to the fifth floor. I moved to put my key in the door but it opened at my touch, even though I remembered I had locked it that morning.

  “Dad?”

  I thought maybe he had changed his mind and come home before me. There was no answer. As I opened the door wider, I stared in disbelief. The room was a mess. Someone had opened all the drawers and spilled their contents onto the floor. I hurried into my bedroom and noticed everything there was also pulled from my drawers. I saw my panties on the floor, and it made me blush to think someone handled them. Dad’s room was in an even worse state. Someone lifted his mattress and leaned it against a wall without bothering to put the bed back together.

  I suddenly had a terrible thought. What if the people who did this were still in the apartment? I froze and listened. I didn’t hear anything in the apartment, but I did hear a loud roar coming from the street.

  I moved to the window and looked down. The people filling the street chanted something I couldn’t quite make out. Then my brain translated the Arabic. They were chanting, “death to foreigners.” I heard a loud crash and saw some men had grabbed asphalt blocks from a construction project down the block.

  They were hammering the windows of a Chrysler 300 that I knew belonged to Mister Anderson—the Swedish diplomat who lived on the sixth floor. I wondered if Mister El Haziz was safe, and then I remembered the bulge in his jacket.

  I knew I wasn’t safe because I saw some of the mob filing into the lobby far below me. I ran out the door and started toward the stairs when I had another idea. I couldn’t escape through the lobby, but maybe I could hide in the basement. I raced down a corridor until I found the back staircase. I tried not to make noise as I hurried down the stairs. When I reached the first floor, I heard muffled voices and knew people still milled around the lobby so I ran down the stairs to the basement.

  A single naked light bulb cast shadows and provided very little light. The room looked spooky. I had never been down there, but I figured there must be a good place to hide among all the boxes. I studied the room and saw Mister Fawny built some equipment sheds and some of them had padlocks. One door required a key. Shelves filled the rest of the room. I saw old suitcases, rolls of toilet paper and paper towels, as well as, many large plastic containers filled with cleaning supplies.

  I froze when I heard the sound of heavy steps on the stairs. I saw there wasn’t any room under the shelves. Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed me from behind. It covered my mouth. I tried to scream but couldn’t. The same strong arm pulled me backward into the shed requiring a key to open the door. The man’s other hand closed the door, and I saw it was Mister Fawny.

  “Shhh. We must be very quiet,” Mister Fawny said in a hoarse whisper.

  The room was completely dark except for a tiny beam of light that shone through the top of the door from the light bulb hanging from the basement ceiling.

  “Why are you…?”

  Mister Fawny put his finger over his mouth in a gesture that I knew meant that I shouldn’t speak. He pointed to the door, and I heard voices. Soon the door rattled as someone tried to turn the knob. Someone else began banging on the door. There was the sound of angry voices. After several minutes the sounds grew distant. Then it was completely quiet.

  “Why are you here?”

  “My friend at the Egyptian Arms called and told me that the crowd was heading this way. Some of them were calling for death to all bowabs because they say we kiss the boots of Western imperialists. This is the only room that has a dead bolt lock.”

  I realized even poor Mister Fawny was a victim of Egyptian politics. I doubted he ever spent any time worrying about who was in office, but now his very life was in danger just because he was trying to make a living.

 
“Why did you take the risk of opening the door?”

  “You have a very soft step, Missie. I knew you weren’t one of them. I couldn’t let them hurt you. You are like my Ibna.”

  Mister Fawny used the Arabic word that meant ‘daughter’, someone a father must protect at all costs. His use of that word moved me. I felt a teardrop fall down my cheek. This man risked his life for me just as he would his own daughter.

  Mister Fawny sat down on a wooden box and pointed to a second box.

  “Sit. We must wait.”

  I sat for what felt like hours. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Dad’s number. It soon went to voicemail. I whispered and tried to explain as much as I could as quickly as possible. Then I told him to call me.

  “He isn’t teaching right now. Dad always answers his cell. I’m worried. Even if he were talking with someone at the university, he would see it was me and pick up.”

  Mister Fawny shrugged. “Maybe he is talking with someone very important. It will be all right. Your father knows how to keep out of danger. I know he is very brave, but he also is very smart. The army will keep the students from leaving the area so he probably cannot come home now.”

  The time dragged on. Finally, the bowab nodded and indicated that the basement had been perfectly quiet long enough. After he quietly unlocked the door, we cautiously inched up the stairs with Mister Fawny leading the way.

  The empty lobby looked as if an earthquake had shaken it. The mob had overturned chairs and tables and broken some of the furniture. They had scrawled hateful words on the walls as well.

  Mister Fawny shook his head sadly and began the process of putting the room back in order. He told me he would use his master key to let himself into my apartment and put everything in order. He expressed shock when I told him about my discovery and asked if I had a friend where I could stay until Dad called me.

  I looked out the window and saw several men across the street. It would not be good to attract their attention. I decided to leave through the back door, the one that required a key to open. I stuck my head out the door and didn’t see anyone, so I darted out into the alley and turned in the direction of a side street.

  I didn’t want to stay in the apartment, and I didn’t think I could break through any army barricades at the university. Clearly Aasuma’s neighborhood would not be safe. I knew where Mister El Haziz lived because I saw an employment form for the driver on Dad’s desk, and the address had struck me as odd since it was not in the Islamic quarter. He would know what to do, and he always made me feel safe.

  I saw a black and white cab parked near a curb with the driver reading an Egyptian newspaper. I banged on his window until he lowered it and began negotiating the fare required. When the driver realized I spoke fluent Arabic and apparently was not a tourist, he readily cut his initial offer in half and I accepted.

  The cab driver drove at breakneck speed through a number of back streets. I realized the man was consciously trying to avoid thoroughfares where mobs might have gathered. In some cases, the cab brushed against makeshift produce stands that crowded the narrow side streets.

  Mister El Haziz lived in Mohandissen, one of Cairo’s newer suburbs. Fast-food restaurants and swanky boutiques lined the streets. Surprisingly, it was an area where mostly Westerners lived. I had never actually been there, but heard students talk about it. I wondered how our driver could afford a house in such an expensive looking neighborhood.

  I paid the fare and hurried to a home built in traditional Egyptian style. A wall with a gate provided privacy from prying eyes. I rang the bell and saw a camera trained on me. Soon I heard a buzzing sound and the gate opened. Inside, I saw a courtyard filled with flowers and recognized red poppies and blue lotus. Even the papyrus plants were in bloom. Apparently, Mister El Haziz shared Egyptians’ love for colorful flowers.

  I followed a winding path to the house and came to a door made of very dark wood that looked solid enough to keep the whole world out. When I swung the large knocker in the shape of a crocodile, it made a loud thumping sound.

  The door opened, and Mister El Haziz stared at me.

  “What are you doing here? How did you know where I live?”

  I ignored his second question and described how my apartment was ransacked and how a mob attacked the building. Although Mister El Haziz listened without interrupting me, his face tightened when I described the damage to our apartment.

  “What about your father? Where is he?”

  “I can’t reach him even though I’ve left messages. I think he might be at the university. Can I stay here until he calls me back?”

  “Of course. Please, come in.”

  I followed Mister El Haziz into the house past a drawing room and dining room, staples of most Egyptian homes. Hand-made carpets with intricately woven patterns covered the wooden floors. A middle-aged woman greeted me and introduced herself as Mrs. El Haziz. She wore a maroon colored traditional Egyptian covering, but the large hooked nose dominating her face drew my attention. Her brown hair had turned gray. She had a kindly smile, and her broken English indicated she probably hadn’t much formal education. The woman led me into the kitchen and pointed for me to sit at the table while she filled plates with various pastries.

  Mister El. Haziz excused himself and said he had to finish a project in the other side of the house. After a few minutes, I asked to use the restroom. Mrs. Haziz pointed in the direction. As I walked down the hall, I heard Mister El Haziz talking on a phone in rapid fire Arabic. I heard my name and so I automatically translated what he was saying.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  “Yes, she’s here. I’ll keep her here until you come and take her in. We can use her to bring her father in as well. No, she doesn’t suspect anything.”

  I hurried back towards the front of the house. I opened the front door softly and closed it, hoping Mrs. El Haziz would not hear the sound in the kitchen.

  I ran out the gate and raced down the block and around the corner. I saw a hotel further down the street and hurried in that direction. A number of black and whites lined up in front of the building. I leaned into the cab in front of the line and began negotiating. I looked in my bag and checked my purse. I saw I only had twenty Egyptian dollars left.

  “Head towards the center of the city and use main streets. Stop when the meter gets to twenty dollars.”

  The driver looked at me for a long moment and then reluctantly nodded. He drove to the corner and turned. I looked back towards Mister El Haziz’s house and saw two black sedans parked in front. Several men were standing in front of the gate in a heated discussion. I saw a shaved head and recognized Mister El Haziz. I slid further down in the seat as the cab drove by.

  Who was the driver talking to? Who wanted Dad and me? How could someone Dad trusted with my life do this? My mind raced as I tried to make sense of everything that just happened. Was there anyone I could trust?

  Suddenly my cell phone rang.

  “Dad?”

  “No, it’s Tom Thornton. Your father had a heart attack, but he’s okay. He was treated and in recovery now.”

  “A heart attack. Where is he?”

  “He’s at the El Sayatem Hospital. The ambulance took him to the nearest hospital; unfortunately it was the El Sayatem.”

  I knew the El Sayatem was a joke. It was a public hospital with virtually no funding.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Do you think he’ll be okay there?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve taken care of that. I’ll explain when you get here. Your father will be very happy to see you.”

  “Why are you there?”

  “I’m head of the school board. Mister Raza called me, and I came right over. There’s no need to go into all that now. Just come over.”

  I thanked him and said I was on my way. Soon, though, the driver stopped his cab at the side of the road and pointed to his meter. I paid him and looked around. At first I was completely lost, and then I spotted some large cement
blocks.

  I knew where I was, and it didn’t make me feel very confident. I was right in the middle of the City of the Dead, a neighborhood I had visited on a field trip with Aasuma. Built centuries ago to house the dead, squatters now occupied many of the mausoleums, living along side the dead. It was positively spooky.

  Because the residents lived rent free, Dad had told me that crime flourished there. I shuddered and tried to shrink against the wall of an ancient building. It felt cold and clammy. I tried not to think about my surroundings and concentrated on Dad. It would be a long walk, but I figured I could be at the hospital within an hour.

  I reached into my bag and pulled out a hijib that I always kept there and wrapped it around my head. Now, at least, I would attract less attention. I blessed whatever intuition moved me to wear a dress that day rather than pants. I could pass for an Egyptian—at least at first glance.

  The day lengthened as I walked past monuments to the dead that were beginning to crumble. I walked past a mausoleum in particularly bad shape. As I passed it, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped. I wasn’t superstitious, but this was too much. I turned and saw a small figure draped from head to toe with a scarf covering her face.

  “Please. Can you help me?”

  The voice was soft but very insistent. The girl spoke in street Arabic. The lack of grammar marked her class as surely as the rags she wore.

  I watched in horror as the girl slowly pulled back her scarf. Her face, including much of her cheek and nose were eaten away. I realized the girl had leprosy. I studied the subject in school since it was once the scourge of ancient Egypt. Now, the Government shipped anyone with it to Colony Abu Zaabal—the prison like fortress near the Cairo airport.

  I opened my purse, but realized I gave my last dollars to the cab driver. I had to help this girl! I put my hands on my ears, took out my gold studs, and handed them to the girl who thanked me profusely.

  I walked faster. I thought I heard voices nearby, so I hid myself behind the walls of a crumbling ruin. The voices became louder. Soon I saw a group of men chasing a teenager who looked like he was running for his life. All of them were dressed in rags. The boy clutched a man’s wallet tightly in one hand. The rich leather identified it as something that once belonged to a tourist. I stayed perfectly still until the men were out of sight. I felt a slight movement as something brushed against my right leg. The largest rat I had ever seen tried to burrow its head under my cuff.