by Ibrahim Essa
The only sounds for a while were the sipping of tea, the clatter of spoons and plates, the rustling of the leaves in the trees, and the tinkling of the water in the swimming pool. The friendly conversation had taken the edge off the cold, depressing reality, and their courageous confessions had swept aside some of the barriers between them. They enjoyed a safe silence for a while.
Then Hatem asked Omayma, “Can I speak to Omar?”
Omayma turned to Hassan. “Have you seen any pictures of Omar?” she asked him.
“I saw the pictures on the walls,” he said.
“He’s sweet, isn’t he?”
“I just want to check on him,” said Hatem. “Stop being so difficult. I miss my son.”
“Shall I tell Boutros?” she said firmly.
Hatem was angry and reproached her.
“For a start his name’s Hassan. But go on and have done with it. What are you going to tell him? That you’re hiding my son’s phone number from me so that I can’t speak to him and check up on him when he’s ten thousand miles away?”
Omayma defended herself. “I’m in the wrong,” she said. “But I just want you to toughen up and learn how to deal with your son as a son, and not as a reason for having a nervous breakdown.”
He shut up in defeat and she continued.
“Your morbid worrying about him is wearing him out, and wearing you and me out too.”
“But in fact, Auntie . . .” Hassan interrupted.
“Auntie. Great. Carry on,” said Hatem.
“I would have liked my father to take an interest in me, and ask after me,” said Hassan.
“My dear,” said Omayma, “Sheikh Hatem can go a week without asking after Omar but he never stops worrying that, God forbid, something bad will happen to him.”
Then, turning to Hatem, she added, “Should I tell him, Your Grace?”
“That sounds like a threat, Omayma,” replied Hatem. “Look, Mister Boutros, I’ve had panic attacks because of my son since he was a child, and when Omar had an accident . . .”
“He had a heart attack,” said Omayma.
Clearly she didn’t want to disclose Hatem’s wanderings around el-Hussein and Sayeda Zeinab and the fact he had walked out of the house and the hospital out of weakness and fear and anger, in case Hassan had doubts about the soundness of his intellect and mental health. With grateful looks, Hatem thanked her for her courtesy and good sense.
Omayma looked up at Sirhan, who had suddenly appeared. Sirhan, his hand over the mouthpiece of a cell phone, whispered to Hatem.
“It’s Sheikh Mukhtar el-Husseini on the line,” he said, offering him the phone.
Hatem heard the name and quickly grabbed the phone. His cheerful smile began to fade within seconds of listening.
“Hello there, Mawlana. God bless you . . . You too, we’ve really missed you . . . Of course . . . Really? It would be an honor and a privilege . . . Where? . . . Really? . . . That’s good news.”
Hatem then stood up and started walking toward the door of the house.
“Open the gate for Sheikh Mukhtar, you guys,” he ordered those around him.
Just as they opened the gate a car drove up. It stopped to let out Mukhtar el-Husseini, who was still holding the phone in his hand, as was Hatem, who hung up and opened his arms for the sheikh.
Mukhtar asked to be alone with Hatem, who took him into a room furnished with arabesque furniture and carpets and pictures on the walls. It smelled of incense and the sharp aroma of coffee from a little brass coffee pot on a small gas ring where Hatem himself made a cup of coffee for Sheikh Mukhtar.
“I’m very sorry,” said Mukhtar, genuinely apologetic. “And I’m embarrassed to have turned up so unexpectedly.”
“By your ancestor the Prophet, never say that again,” said Hatem.
“God preserve you and bless you, Mawlana.”
“God is our master on earth and in heaven. I’m to blame and I ask your forgiveness,” said Hatem. “I meant to speak to the son of the big man about your problems with the security people and with him, but I didn’t get around to it and other things distracted me. To tell the truth, Uncle, I was worried, because if I had asked for something on your behalf I would have hated it if he had sent me away disappointed and I would have been embarrassed—what could I have said to such an eminent descendant of such a noble lineage?”
“Don’t worry about it, my friend. It’s God who relieves our sorrows,” said the Sufi sheikh. “I came to you in a hurry today because I heard they were about to do something major against me and I don’t know exactly what it might be. As you know, we have friends everywhere and one of them told me it was serious and imminent, so I thought I’d go abroad temporarily. Some friends in Saudi Arabia invited me to stay there and now I’m on my way to the airport.”
The news deeply saddened Hatem.
“So you came to say goodbye to me?” he asked.
“To say goodbye and to ask you to keep some things safe for me.”
“Of course I will.”
“Firstly, there’s my mother. The old woman refused to come with me and decided to stay at our house in the country. I’m asking you if you’d be so kind as to keep an eye on her and make sure she’s safe.”
Hatem had tears in his eyes as Mukhtar continued with his request.
“There’s something else I’d like to leave with you,” he said. He took a flash drive from his pocket, along with a small pocket notebook and a closed envelope sealed with a strip of transparent Scotch tape, and gave them to Hatem.
“The notebook explains everything that’s happened to me recently, in my own hand, and there’s the text of threats I’ve received and the letters I’ve sent to all the senior officials about this. The flash drive has some audio files and pictures of some very important things we obtained through God’s grace and by His testing of us. I’m leaving them with you until, after hardship, God brings relief and hopefully joy.”
“I can’t believe this is happening. I’m sorry, Uncle, but I don’t understand. Are they harassing you this way because you once said something about the president’s son? Is all this hatred and persecution because of one word or one sentence? Isn’t that rather excessive? Might there not be something bigger than you think behind all of this?”
Mukhtar stood up, calm and smiling.
“May God bring relief after torment, in the name of my Lord and Master, the beloved Prophet,” he said.
“May God bless him and grant him peace,” echoed Hatem.
Next to the car, Hatem asked him, “Are you rewarding my negligence by trusting me with these things for safekeeping?”
Mukhtar nodded as he got into the car.
“Why not say I’m punishing you for your negligence and adding to your troubles?”
When Hatem was back in the house, he took a piece of paper out of his pocket, picked up his phone, and dialed Nashwa’s number.
He didn’t think of opening Mukhtar el-Husseini’s envelope, he didn’t take out the notebook that Mukhtar mentioned, and he didn’t put the flash drive into his computer. He never thought of doing so. In fact he looked at the envelope with unease. He flicked it with his finger and made it spin like a top. He didn’t put it in his little safe, saying he’d wait till he could remember the code. He decided to avoid thinking about it and speak to Nashwa instead. His heart was beating and he couldn’t think straight. It was the same slight dizziness he had felt in the past when things happened so fast that he couldn’t keep up. He had often thought it might be the first sign of diabetes, but he had grown used to it over the years and just put it down to aging.
She answered in that same beguiling voice.
“Hello,” she said, politely but coldly.
“Hello. Miss Nashwa?”
There was a puzzled silence and then an inquisitive voice.
“Who is this?” she asked.
“It’s Sheikh Hatem el-Shenawi,” he answered, firmly but impassively.
The silence was longe
r. He was waiting for her to answer, while she was waiting for him to say something more.
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” Hatem continued.
“Not at all, it’s an honor, Mawlana,” she replied, as if worried he might back off.
Hatem acted even more formally. “I got your number from the production people,” he said.
“Production?” she asked, unfamiliar with the term.
“I mean the producer of the program. I wanted to thank you for taking part.”
“Do you usually get in touch with the audience and thank them for taking part?” she asked.
It wasn’t clear whether she was acting dumb or was genuinely curious.
“No, this is the first time,” he answered recklessly. “On the contrary, I usually avoid speaking to the participants.”
“So why have you granted me this honor?”
Now he was sure she was acting dumb.
“Because your question suggested you have strong views but you misunderstand my ideas and opinions, and so I’d like to clarify and explain,” he said.
She abandoned the attack.
“Please do,” she said.
“Thank you,” he replied. “But if you agree, I’d like to meet you in my office.”
Before she had time to ask any questions, he added quickly, “And by the way, when I meet participants or my followers I always do so in my office, and there’s nothing special or unusual about it.”
She agreed, he thanked her, and they arranged an appointment.
THE STREET WAS PACKED TIGHT and people in the crowd were reaching out to shake hands with Sheikh Hatem. Tawhid Abdel-Qadir, with his vast frame and his long arms, was waving to his men and his aides to keep people from harassing Hatem, who was surrounded by bodies. Loudspeakers in front of the shop were blasting out religious poetry at high volume, and the contractors had arranged rows of chairs on the pavement and on half the street, completely blocking the traffic, although there were policemen standing around to greet him too. Hatem realized that Tawhid was throwing velvet bags containing dozens of pound coins into the crowd. This attracted more people and created chaos as they scrambled to pick up the money. Hatem had a splitting headache as he cut the ribbon to open the enormous store, and the video cameras pursued him everywhere he went. The noise almost burst his eardrums and dozens of people raised their cell phones above their heads to take pictures. Others came up and took pictures of themselves standing next to him. When he was pushed into the store by the crowd and the chaos, he found young people in uniform with fixed smiles on their faces waiting to greet him with religious anthems like the ones taught to elementary school children. Some of the people in the crowd pressed pieces of paper and envelopes into his pocket and he was sure they were requests for jobs and for financial help from people who saw him as someone famous or lucky or successful who could give them help. With Tawhid he inspected the clothing section, including the underwear section and the women’s and children’s departments, the shoes, the perfumes, and the electrical appliances, as well as a section for the special clothing that pilgrims wear, with a large model of the Kaaba in the middle.
“Tawhid, you have succeeded where Abraha failed!” joked Hatem, an obscure reference to a Yemeni ruler who attacked Mecca before Islam. No one understood it.
At every step there were pictures with the crowd and the noise. Hatem had come all the way from Cairo to this small town a few kilometers from Kafr el-Zayat in the Nile Delta as a favor to Ahmed el-Faisal, a senior officer in the branch of State Security that specialized in monitoring religious activities. In fact Hatem fell under the authority of two branches of State Security: one of them, called Religious Activities, had probably been monitoring him since he was a preacher employed by the Ministry of Religious Endowments. The imams of mosques had to have security clearances vouching for their good conduct, to prevent them from deviating from government instructions, which were essentially instructions from the security people. The process began with a plain-clothes policeman assigned to the mosque, and if the mosque was important it would be assigned to the officer in charge of the department, and if the sheikh was popular and succeeded in attracting a large congregation then the State Security officer for the whole area oversaw and monitored the mosque and the preacher. But when Hatem moved into the world of television, he came under the responsibility of another branch of State Security for the satellite channels, which had officers assigned to each station and each channel. The senior ones had direct access to the owners of the stations, who were of course already being monitored by the branch that kept an eye on the activities of businessmen, because there wasn’t a television station owner who wasn’t a businessman, and every businessman had a file and had been covered by the security people ever since he started doing business. The relationship might take the form of coordination, subordination, or even blackmail, in varying degrees of benevolence or severity depending on the businessman’s relationship with those with political influence and whether the businessman had carried out favors in the past, such as giving a job in his companies to a retiring officer or to the sons of police generals, or contributing to the cost of building an office for the branch in a new city, or providing gifts at the feasts of Eid al-Fitr or Eid al-Adha or New Year or Police Day or the spring festival of Shamm el-Nassim, when they might send salted or smoked fish wrapped in ribbons tied with bows like birthday presents. The junior or younger officers had relationships with the directors of the television stations and programs, and there were program presenters who were the direct responsibility of senior officers because they were well-known and successful, and the agreements with them superseded any agreements the station owner or manager had with anyone else.
Hatem kept Ahmed el-Faisal sweet to avoid any problems with the security people. Throughout the fifteen years since Hatem had started to appear on the scene, insignificant at first and then moving up the scale and expanding, he had managed to maintain a good and secure relationship with the security people, without working on their behalf. He wasn’t one of the clerics who were completely under their patronage and who didn’t try to hide it or feel any shame when they openly admitted their relationship with some senior official in the Interior Ministry. At the many gatherings organized by Khaled Abu Hadid, to which he invited sheikhs and preachers and police generals and other officers, the officers were always careful not to state an opinion or to give instructions. They saw the gatherings as social occasions that brought them good luck and were not part of their official duties. They preferred to summon the sheikhs to their offices in the ministry, which meant getting through the barricades and checkpoints and past all the guards. Then you were met by an officer who took you up in the elevator with a policeman and you had to go along complicated, winding corridors till you reached their vast offices. The presence of flags and people in uniform everywhere and people repeating the words ‘pasha’ and ‘bey’ and ‘your excellency’ all the time created an aura that might impress the guests. But the security people did not always welcome publicity about these contacts. On one occasion Sheikh Safwat, the star performer on a station where all the men had the kind of beards that troubled Omayma, received a scolding from a general for what he had said.
“Sheikh Safwat, how can you say in the newspapers that you sit in the lap of State Security? Do you think statements like that make us happy? I swear, I told General Adel we ought to lock you up for that statement. Keep up appearances in public, sheikh. We want you to do what we tell you, that’s very true, but people have to believe you if you’re going to be important to us and to yourself. Now say what you want, for the love of security and stability, because true Muslims want to save their country from chaos, and obedience to authority is part of obedience to God. You might say something really good and proper, but then someone might come along and say, ‘Oh, he’s a government man. He sits in the lap of State Security.’”
The funny thing was that in the program immediately after this conversation Sheik
h Safwat came out and spoke about the Jews and Israel and jihad against them in Gaza, to give the impression he was a big militant and a dreaded opponent of the government. This made the State Security man even angrier and a few days later the television station had to close down on the grounds that it hadn’t paid some money it owed to the authorities. Hatem was eager not to work for security and made do with working for the Ministry of Religious Endowments, which itself worked for security. He didn’t do meetings with officers, though he ran into them by chance through Khaled Abu Hadid or other businessmen who had links with both security and with sheikhs and preachers. He spoke to them on the phone and gave them presents and helped them get on subsidized pilgrimages to Mecca. He congratulated them when their children and relatives got married and gave them his condolences when someone died. One way he was able to keep his distance from them was through their sons and daughters, because of all preachers Hatem was the one who had won the hearts of young people, and this trip to open a store two hundred kilometers from home was one way he could get close to the Interior Ministry people, so that he could in effect safely keep his distance. He had seen no sign that Ahmed el-Faisal and Tawhid were related in any way, but the event clearly mattered to Ahmed because he had insisted that Hatem attend.
Hatem leaned over toward Tawhid’s ear in the midst of all the noise.
“Tawhid,” he said, “I’m going to play a trick on you, but it’s well-intentioned, I swear.”
Tawhid smiled amiably and supportively. He didn’t understand or take in what Hatem said, but he was definitely welcoming. In the meantime Hatem took out some of the pieces of paper stuffed in his pocket and read two or three of the names of the people asking for financial help. Then he asked someone for the microphone they had prepared so that he could give a short homily to celebrate the opening. Hatem stepped up onto the platform overlooking the open space outside the store.
“I ask God Almighty to bless this store,” he began. “May He bless its owner, those who work in it, those who have dealings with it, those who visit it, those who buy from it, and those who sell to it, and may God in all His glory have us work together to ensure that the store fulfills God’s purposes, doing good deeds that undo evil deeds, earning the owner of this store a place in paradise alongside the martyrs and the prophets, the rivers of milk and honey and dark-eyed houris—sorry, Umm Abdel-Rahman, if you can hear us.”