Live from Cairo

by Ian Bassingthwaighte

  “To what end?”

  “To make her feel responsible for the death of a young man. It occurs to me, seeing her in person, watching her hide behind policy, that she may be vulnerable to that kind of . . .”

  “Attack?”

  “Approach, I think, is the better word.”

  “It won’t work,” said Aos, clearly relieved by the thought. “It’s the same old story. Sometimes people die. It’s horrible, but true. We have a lot of clients. They’re old. If they’re not old, they’re sick.”

  “What if you show up at her door? And act the part of dying son who loves his mother? Things change when you put a face on the ID number. She never sees the people she reads about. Not really. Not in a human way. Interviews don’t count. They’re rigged. There’s no humanity in a room full of resettlement officers prowling for discrepancies in a long, complicated story. We show Hana that this story is in fact someone’s life. Your life cut short by your illness. Whatever that illness may be. A normally treatable condition exacerbated by circumstances in Egypt. Lack of quality medical care being the germane—”

  “Oh, no. No, no.”

  “Hana needs to feel guilty. Guilty people need to forgive themselves. We provide that opportunity. Help us help Dalia! We get a new yellow card. She gets to clear her conscience.” Charlie handed Aos a stapled document—a testimony Charlie had spent most of his sick day writing and rewriting—but Aos crumpled the paper and threw the ball into the trash. Charlie, having planned ahead, had e-mailed himself the document. He logged on to the computer and printed a second copy. Then a third copy just to make a point. “I can do this forever,” said Charlie. He printed a fourth copy to make his point a second time.

  Aos saw the sink was flooding and finally turned off the tap. Then he grabbed the document out of Charlie’s hand. He didn’t read it right away. He glared at Charlie for a few seconds. Not in a seething way. Just tired and taken aback.

  Case Number: 167/2011

  Name: Amirah Salih Radi

  Mobile: +20 – – – –

  E-mail: – – – – @gmail.com

  Family: Rami Kamel Salih (husband)

   Jalal Radi Salih (son, born 1989)

   Sahar Radi Salih (daughter, deceased 2005)

  (prepared with the help of the Refugee Relief Project)

  Introduction

  My name is Amirah Salih Radi and I am an Iraqi refugee living in Egypt with my husband, Ibrahim, and my son, Jalal. We fled Baghdad after the Americans fled the war they started. When they left, the militias took control. Life got worse for everybody, but especially those in mixed marriages. Our family among them. I am Sunni, but my husband is Shia. We had to flee Baghdad because a long time ago we married and since then we loved each other. The militias demanded we divorce or die, so we fled. Egypt was our first stop, but we didn’t want to stay long. Of course we thought Europe or America was better—because Sahar, my daughter, was sick. In another world, lupus is not so grim. But with no treatment? First my daughter was tired. Then her skin began to tear itself when she went out in the sun. She lost weight. Her eyes dried, her hair thinned, and her mouth bled when she ate anything too hard. Why was the crust on bread too hard? There was also a rash on her face in the shape of a butterfly. Her knees and elbows, the bones themselves seemed to grow thicker. She never moved because of the pain. She died during a night I slept through in a country that wasn’t our home. I dreamed right through the moment she left me.

  Now my son exhibits symptoms and my husband refuses to pray. Rami says God gifted us children so He could test us by taking them. I am the foolish one who still hopes. I hope we can leave Egypt. I hope there is a better hospital with better services and access to medication. We are noncitizens with no money. I hope my son will not die from a disease that is treatable, but much later after I have died and he has become an old man. I hope you will understand why we are asking for resettlement. We only have one child left, and I hope to keep him.

  Aos folded the document without reading the other four pages—the chronological list of events, including the escape from Iraq and the religious persecution preceding it, and everything detailing Jalal’s terminal disease, currently developing. He imprisoned the folded pages in his shirt pocket. Then Aos drew the blinds, causing morning to appear like a fox; it was sudden and sanguine. The hot, red light turned Charlie into a long black shadow.

  3

  Aos’ plan was to forget the lie he’d told. Why say the hair that had brushed against him was horse’s hair when the hair belonged to a woman? Last night when Aos had gone to the square, things had escalated unexpectedly. The sound of armored vehicles exceeding the speed limit, then turning sharply toward the crowd—Leave now or die by our tires!—had urged the protesters to run. When the protesters didn’t run, the armored vehicles stopped to unload their cargo. Each vehicle jettisoned twenty soldiers, who chased protesters from the square and beat the ones who wouldn’t leave or couldn’t run fast enough. To escape, at the very least, a contusion, Aos had left a woman he didn’t know on the sidewalk at the mercy of the soldiers chasing them. His crime had been running faster than her. The soldiers, wearing dark green clothes with lots of pockets and carrying thick black sticks, reaching for Aos, had grabbed her arm instead and pulled her to the ground. The black sticks fell, and fell, and fell. He hadn’t seen, but heard the falling. Whup, whup. Down the road, when Aos had been a safe distance away, he’d turned back. By then, the woman had been lifted into the rear of a gray van covered in what looked like fencing. Aos didn’t know her name, her address, her phone number; he’d met her in the square as water cannons had made sloppy work of the protesters. After prayer, after shouting slogans, after Aos had lost himself in the volume of his own voice—shouting, desperately, for the Supreme Council to prosecute the field marshal—they’d exchanged happy, hopeless glances.

  The plan to forget his lie was really a plan to forget her whupping. Aos would leave the office for noon prayer, then repent in the square by shouting even louder than last night. Arrest the leading members of the old government! Trials for corrupt businessmen! Prosecute the field marshal, leader of the military council, closet Mubarak confidant! Unfortunately, Michael and Sabah cornered Aos as he tried to escape. It was disappointing because he’d taken great pains to skirt past the interns.

  “Hey . . . ,” said Sabah. “I wanted to ask if . . .”

  Aos ducked into the kitchen to avoid Sabah’s hot stare. To make it seem as if he weren’t running away, but intended to end up there, he started washing his mug.

  “Are we bothering you?” asked Sabah. She’d followed Aos into the kitchen; Michael had followed her. The room had never been so small or stagnant.

  “Not at all. I’m glad you’re here. I enjoy your company.” After Aos’ mug was cleaner than it had ever been, he began washing other mugs. He just couldn’t bring himself to stop washing.

  “I sense a tension,” said Sabah. “Is something up? Are you and Charlie . . . ?”

  “What tension?” said Aos. “I can’t speak for Charlie, but I’ve never been less tense.” He shook the soap bottle as if something could be made from nothing if he shook hard enough.

  “Don’t you sense a tension?” Sabah asked Michael.

  “I just wanted tea,” said Michael, pointing to the mug in Aos’ hand. Though he didn’t want tea badly enough to endure any further awkwardness. He tried backing away, but Sabah blocked him.

  “Aos and Charlie haven’t talked all morning,” she said. “When has that ever happened? Normally they’re like . . .” Sabah rubbed her hands together. Charlie would’ve found this to be a curious gesture, but Aos wasn’t bothered; he’d grown up in a country where men were free to express tenderness.

  “I’ll admit,” said Michael, “it’s very strange.”

  Sabah finally let him pass. He returned to his desk with a look of mourning. He’d failed to get his tea.

  “So what’s going on?” asked Sabah.

  T
elling Sabah the truth required betraying Charlie. How could Aos betray his friend? When he knew, or at least hoped feverishly, that Charlie wouldn’t go through with his rash plan? Knowing Charlie, he’d later apologize for being so imprudent and again for being so slow to realize that. Aos chose to forgive Charlie in advance and not betray him. “I nearly got hit in the head with a baton last night. That’s all. I didn’t sleep.” There was nothing wrong with the truth. Aos had nearly been hit in the head with a baton. Was it his fault the woman behind him had been hit instead? Was it his fault for running faster?

  “A baton?”

  “I escaped. I was very lucky.”

  Sabah was the only one in the office who could possibly understand. Everybody else—Charlie, Michael, the interns—could flee Egypt at any time. And very well might in the months to come. But Sabah and Aos couldn’t flee without scorning God. They were born in Egypt for a reason. To see it become something great. Yet there was and had always been a distance between them. Sabah, so far as Aos knew, never went to the square. She never protested. Aos hadn’t asked why, but assumed the worst: that Sabah wanted the revolution to go away. Even if that was true, could he blame her? He knew less about Sabah than he should’ve, given how long they’d worked together. Maybe the revolution had caused irrevocable harm to her family. Maybe somebody she knew had died or was rotting in prison. Not knowing made Aos a little sick. Why weren’t they better friends? Why weren’t they lovers?

  “If there’s ever anything you want to talk about . . . ,” said Sabah in Arabic.

  Every day Aos nearly forgot what his own language sounded like. Not because he didn’t hear it, but because he didn’t listen the right way. He listened only insofar as he needed to translate. It was a pleasure to hear words as they really sounded without feeling the need to change their form and, subtly, their meaning.

  “Shukran,” said Aos.

  Sabah poured hot water for tea into one of the several mugs Aos had washed. “Did you notice Michael didn’t get what he came for?” she asked, laughing. “What a coward.” That line contained the state of their relationship. Aos knew Sabah and Michael were fucking. He knew they were fighting, too. He’d extrapolated that from what Michael had recently told him about their “situation.” Michael had wanted to propose months ago, but lingered in doubt until the revolution started. His problem had since grown several times its original size. Sabah had discovered a notepad on which Michael had rehearsed his proposal. “I didn’t want to mince words,” he’d said when presented with the evidence. Should he propose now despite her thinking the note was a joke? She’d smirked upon reading it. Should he propose now despite the turmoil in Tahrir? Nobody knew when or even if the revolution would end. Maybe it would end in a war. Should he propose now despite his burning desire to leave Egypt? Aos, blitzed by these questions, said he wasn’t the right person to ask. He’d never been in love before. At least, not so much that he’d felt compelled to tell the person. Much less marry them. “I’m sorry,” Aos had said. “I want to help, but my advice would be uninformed.” Michael, clearly distressed, had quietly left. Soon after things had taken a turn for the worse. The discrepancy between what Michael said and what Michael wanted caused rifts in the pressure seal of his and Sabah’s love. Her comment about his cowardice the least among them. Aos figured it would blow up soon enough; then the whole office would know.

  * * *

  In the square, banners read SLOW JUSTICE IS INJUSTICE—a reminder that former president Mubarak, sly devil, had escaped the wrath of the people. He’d been ousted almost two months before and had yet to languish in prison. He wasn’t even hiding. He was eating lamb and fish on the coast of the Red Sea in Sharm el-Sheikh with the hills of Tiran—an island with unclear sovereignty—in the distance. Mubarak could kayak there if he needed to escape; should, for example, the attorney general actually charge the tyrant. For the murders, the corruption, the misappropriation of public funds. A fit man could even swim to Tiran in good weather. Aos hoped Mubarak would try to escape by swimming. Even calm and salty water would fail to keep such an old crony afloat. His bloated body, washed ashore, would bring repose to Egypt.

  It was Save the Revolution Day and protesters had planned in advance. First, gather. Then, pray. Finally, shame the military council that took power after Mubarak had stepped down. The plan had been the same for weeks now. The council’s greatest sins, after all, hadn’t changed. Violence, lethargy. The protesters would demand free elections and fair trials for members of the old regime. No exile; no exoneration. The call to Jumu’ah prayer started shortly after noon. Upon Aos’ arrival, it seemed. As if God had asked the protesters to wait for him. Slowly at first, the call sounded at a distance and crawled across the city. As more muezzins turned toward Mecca and sang the adhan into microphones, which echoed into the street through elevated speakers wired to every mosque in Cairo, the hum became a roar. Aos scrambled to wash his arms, his face, his neck, and his feet up to his ankles. He poured water from a one-liter plastic bottle, purchased from a corner store. The water poured clean and freezing. When he prayed, his back curled and straightened. His lips moved and a whisper slipped out. The whole crowd prayed with him. When Aos opened his eyes, he saw what he loved to see: God’s choreography. A thousand people bending in unison. More than a thousand. Two thousand, maybe. Or more.

  When the speeches began, Aos took pleasure in how little fear he felt. It wasn’t always that way. He used to feel vulnerable near Tahrir. If he could hear the speeches, he was too close. He used to sweat even at night in January when the air was so cold. The revolution was still an infant idea back then. Mubarak hadn’t stepped down yet. The fervor, and with it the violence, had peaked. Aos had attended the early protests in the safest way possible, by standing back by the bridge. Tahrir Square was just one part of Tahrir Street, which continued west across the river. He’d escaped every time he saw danger or heard that danger would come. Not until after Mubarak had stepped down had Aos dared enter the heart of the square. He’d been drawn by the idea that the revolution had ended. No thanks to him, of course. His fear had turned to guilt. That guilt had lured him into the square, which had gotten him captured. Paid thugs in civilian clothing had come that night to tear down the tents and scare away the protesters. The Supreme Council had declared the occupation of Tahrir not just a violation of law, but also logic. What are you still doing here? Isn’t the revolution over? Hasn’t Mubarak gone to his palace in Sharm? Go home! Stop blocking traffic! “Mubarak may be exiled, but he’s not imprisoned!” Aos had shouted. He’d been one among thousands shouting. “Only the image of the regime has changed, not its practices! Where is the freedom? The dignity? The bread?” Aos had been waiting to say these things for weeks, months, even years; he was born wanting to say them. Grain prices had gone up. Gas prices had gone up. The only thing that hadn’t risen was the employment rate. Aos had a job and felt both thankful and like shit. He told nobody. When he and a small group of other protesters—desperate men and women masquerading as brave—had refused to leave, they’d been dragged to the grounds of the Egyptian Museum, a hulking pink building north of the square. The building, formerly noted for its priceless collection, was noted then for its deep basement and fenced yard. The men and the women had been separated. The men were stripped naked and their heads were shaved. Live wires were dragged across their wet skin. Wet from bottled water, which had been poured upon them; wet from crying and sweating and spit. Aos took home bruises where he’d been kicked. Burns, too, where the wires dragged. The burns had since become thin, branching scars. Upon release, the captors bestowed on their captives a gift. “Your lives,” they said in all seriousness. “Never return to the square. If you return, we’ll find you. We know your faces.” Some, including Aos, had gone anyway. They didn’t have any fear left except that the goons would go unpunished.

  Aos never learned what came of the women. Were their heads shaved? Were they electrocuted? Or had something worse occurred? How much worse? Aos d
idn’t want to know. He also wanted to know badly. The woman he’d left on the bridge probably suffered their fate. Aos tried not to think about her. What would be accomplished by thinking and regretting? He’d already decided he was sorry for leaving her. Next time he’d sacrifice himself. He’d dive headfirst into the soldiers giving chase. He’d beg for another haircut when the whupping started, just to anger them. Although, would he really? It was easy to believe so; but believing was all he could do besides shouting. Aos shouted until his throat hurt. Arrest the leading members of the old government! Trials for corrupt businessmen! Prosecute the field marshal, leader of the military council, closet Mubarak confidant!

  A scuffle erupted somewhere in the crowd of protesters. Nearby, but out of sight. There was a cry of pain. Aos, ears unstuck from the speeches, moved toward the sound. A second cry dispatched his hesitance. He parted the crowd by walking sideways. “Yallah!” he shouted. “Get out of the way!” He found a man bleeding from his nose and a deep gash in his cheek. The eye above the gash was already beginning to swell shut. The man’s other eye begged Aos for help. It begged urgency. He was hurt. He needed water. Aos impulsively handed the man his one-liter plastic bottle, which had been drained from all the washing; the man looked confused. The bottle was empty, so he pushed it away. He moaned about a rock or stick hitting him. Maybe both. Or something else. He couldn’t say for sure. When he sneezed, blood flew out of his nose. Protesters grabbed the injured man by the arms and a few more grabbed him by the feet. They carried him away to the tents. By the time Aos realized he’d done nothing to help, it was too late. He couldn’t even pick up the man’s glasses. Someone had stepped on them. Aos was so ashamed of his failure to act that he set off in search of the culprit. Surely a hatchet man hired by the government for the dirtiest work, a member of the baltagiya. These gangs of insolvent men from across the city were paid to scare protesters away from the square. No means were too godless. Aos supposed he could identify the culprit, who would be wearing civilian clothes—the baltagiya only represented the government in an unofficial capacity—by the way he gripped his weapon: so hard his knuckles turned white. White knuckles indicated not readiness to swing, but yearning. Hatchet men were anxious to harm. Protesters, on the other hand, held their sticks, boards, shields, helmets, flags, and signs without squeezing them; their knuckles would be the color of their skin. The relaxed grips declared more legitimate wants. Freedom, jobs, fair elections. Aos sped through the crowd of four or five thousand—the number swelling by the second—eyes moving from hand to hand. He saw no white knuckles. He kept looking, hoping to find a man gripping a board with fear and longing and hate. Aos stopped cold. His own desire frightened him. He needed to get away from the crowd before he started seeing white knuckles where there weren’t any. He kept his head parallel to the ground so that he saw only faces, except for the one hand held at head height; when he saw the hand, he directed his attention to the sign it was holding: SORRY FOR THE DISTURBANCE WHILE WE REBUILD EGYPT.