It seemed to me that he was fighting back tears. The responsibility I felt spurred me on to study as hard as possible. I was always on time for lectures, seated in the front row and taking meticulous notes, which I would study thoroughly. I received outstanding grades for my first-year examinations. My father’s face beamed with joy, whereas my mother, concerned to avert the evil eye, made me walk seven times through smoke issuing from an incense burner. I started my second year enthusiastically, longing to graduate so that I could work and share the burden with my father.
My brother Said, who was two years older, was a different sort altogether, and we almost never agreed with each other on any subject. Said never thought about anything but himself, and furthermore, he had a supercilious nature. One day he came into our bedroom, sat down in front of me and, in a tone of derision, asked me out of the blue, “Does your father still think that he’s a landowner in Daraw?”
“You should have some respect when speaking about our father!”
“Can you explain to me what is going on in this house?”
“What have you got to complain about?”
“Look, we are going through hard times. There’s hardly enough money for food and our school fees, but all the same, your father keeps on paying for hordes of jobless Upper Egyptians to stay here.”
“Those Upper Egyptians are our relatives, and they are not jobless. They are in Cairo to arrange some things.”
“Are you trying to convince me that our father is responsible for the whole population of Daraw?”
“He is.”
“How ridiculous. He should be spending his money on us first.”
“The duty to look after your own people is obviously too honorable for you ever to understand.”
“It’s exactly those delusions that have bankrupted our father.”
“Shut up.”
“I’ll say what I want.”
We were always quarreling like that. Said felt aggrieved that his younger brother had been accepted at university whereas he was at a technical college, and he blamed our father for his own failure—it is always easier to blame someone else. It was hardly our father’s fault that Said neglected his studies and had to repeat two years at school and even then received poor marks on his secondary-school certificate. Said’s sense of persecution turned into aggression. Except for our father, no one at home was safe from his outbursts. He would argue with me, boss around our mother and hit Mahmud for no reason, and when it came to poor Saleha, his rage was boundless. Just last week, she left the door of her bedroom ajar and was lying on the bed in her nightgown, reading a textbook. Said made a huge fuss, wiping the floor with her, accusing her of having no manners because she was lying on her stomach with the bedroom door open. He screamed in her face until she started shaking and would have hit her had I not grabbed his hand. I deeply resented the endless bickering, but I do not dislike my brother Said.
These were the focal points of my life: university and home, our rocky finances and my father’s struggle to support us, my fertile imagination, my repressed desires and my forays into poetry. Never for a moment did I doubt that I would one day graduate, get a job and support my family. My life stretched out before me like a long road, but I could see where it led. Then, suddenly, it changed course. It is strange how that can happen unexpectedly due to some small matter or a passing word, going down some street at a particular hour or turning right instead of left or appearing late for work and bumping into someone—any such thing has the potential to change everything.
It was a Wednesday. I will never forget it. Our professor had canceled a lecture, so I decided to go home for lunch before the afternoon classes. As I was leaving the lecture hall, some of my classmates stopped me and invited me to go and hear a talk by Hasan al-Mu’min, chairman of the Wafd Party at the university. Politics did not really interest me, and I begged off, but one of the students taunted me, “Pull yourself together, Kamel. Are you afraid of being arrested?”
I was almost provoked into giving an answer, but I said nothing. Another student grabbed me by the arm, and I went along with him, telling myself that I would stay for a while and then sneak off. When we reached the courtyard in front of the auditorium door, standing there was Hasan Mu’min, with his svelte body, his handsome face and his large, dreamy eyes, but at that moment he looked like a different person. He managed to captivate the students completely. He started by discussing the political situation and explaining how the king was colluding with the English. Then he turned to the occupation. His voice echoed through the hall: “Students! Generally, we associate rape with physical violence. That is wrong. Rape in essence is the violation of our will. The British occupation means to subdue Egypt, and the English want to break our will. The occupation is rape. Egypt is being raped on a daily basis. Does it bother you to see your country being violated?”
A murmur arose from the students and then shouts of “Long live Egypt! Long live Egypt! We’ll free Egypt with our blood!” The strange thing was that I found myself gradually joining in with them, shyly at first and then full-throatedly. I was swept along in a spiritual and mysterious way. I became one with the crowd and forgot that I had been planning to slink out.
After a few moments, Hasan Mu’min made a gesture with his hand, and the clamor gradually died down. He then raised his voice anew: “You, Egyptians! University students! There is no point in negotiating. Britain will not leave Egypt over a few words. Britain only understands the language of force. They occupied our country by force, and only force will make them leave. You, sons of Egypt! You are the country’s greatest hope, and all eyes are upon you. This is your day. The English soldiers are raping your mothers and sisters, and what are you doing about it?”
Pandemonium broke out. The students surged toward Hasan Mu’min and lifted him above their heads. One voice started calling out, “Egypt, we’ll save you!” until the chant was picked up by everyone. I saw some students so moved that they were crying like children. The university guards had closed the main gates from outside so that the demonstration could not spill out onto the street, but the crowd pressed against them until they swung open. I walked along in the demonstration, shouting the slogans enthusiastically. As we approached the overpass, we found the military police waiting for us. They charged at us in waves and beat us with sticks, blows raining down on our heads and bodies haphazardly. People were screaming, and some were bloodied. The secret police surrounded the square to arrest us as we fled. I saw the danger and concentrated on finding an escape route. I darted this way and that until I got to an alley I knew next to the College of Engineering and ran as fast as I could down the small streets by the zoo.
By some miracle, I made it home without being stopped. That night I did not do any studying. I sat smoking and reviewing the day’s events in my mind, becoming increasingly emotional. The comparison of the occupation to rape had filled me with anger. I opened the window and looked outside. An English military patrol was heading down al-Sadd Street toward the square. I stood there watching them, becoming ever more incensed. Those pale-faced Englishmen with their blue eyes and white skin had come to rape our country. I imagined an Englishman trying to violate my sister, Saleha, and could hardly contain myself. I slept fitfully that night and woke up still overwrought. I got dressed quickly and returned to the university to look for Hasan Mu’min, finding him in the cafeteria with some students, going over some papers. He greeted me as calmly as if he had been expecting me. When I whispered that I would like to see him privately, he got up immediately. I had prepared what I wanted to say, but the words just disappeared from my mind. I stood mutely in front of him as he looked at me with a friendly smile. Then I blurted out, “I want to do something for Egypt.”
My voice was emotional and shaky, and I shuddered as I pronounced our country’s name. Hasan Mu’mim was a true leader. He said nothing but nodded as if he completely understood. After asking me a few questions about my group of friends and where I lived, h
e invited me to a meeting of the Wafd committee at five o’clock that day in the garden of the College of Agriculture. The committee was made up of students from various colleges. At the meeting, I was introduced and immediately made a committee member.
When the meeting was over, Hasan pulled me aside and said, “Welcome, Kamel. I want to reassure you that there are many people who love Egypt. We have a broad front made up of nationalists of all political hues. We are everywhere, and by the will of God, we will be victorious.”
Hasan took to charging me with various duties, all of which I carried out to the best of my ability. I translated some articles from the English press to be published in the Wafd’s magazine, which was distributed for free at the university. Then I helped him to set up a Wafd marquee in Sayyida Zeinab. Day by day, my duties increased, and three months after I had joined the committee, Hasan Mu’min surprised me by calling for an early morning meeting—which was highly unusual. I found him, on his own, waiting for me in the garden of the College of Agriculture. He was holding a black briefcase and smoking voraciously, lighting each new cigarette with the butt of the last. He appeared nervous and agitated, pallid and with bags under his bloodshot eyes. He looked around and then whispered under his breath, “In a few days, the British foreign secretary is coming to Egypt. We have prepared a pamphlet protesting his visit and listing the crimes perpetrated by the occupation.”
I looked at him in silence, and he put a hand on my shoulder.
“I want you to distribute this pamphlet in Sayyida Zeinab.”
I did not answer. Things were happening too quickly. I said nothing and just looked at the grass under my feet. I could hear the shouts of the students playing football near us and became aware of Hasan whispering to me again.
“In all good faith, I have to tell you from the outset that what you are about to undertake is considered a crime under the law and punishable. If the authorities connect you with the pamphlet, they will arrest you, put you on trial, and you could spend years in prison.”
Alarming thoughts rushed through my mind. I could see myself in prison, my broken-hearted mother in tears and my sad father looking at me, crestfallen.
Hasan continued, “Kamel, you are a nationalist and a brave man, but I would beg you not to rush this decision. I’ll give you some time to think the matter over. If you decide to refuse, I will understand.”
Deep silence hung between us. I calmly held out my hand to take the briefcase. He tried to say something, but I took the briefcase firmly from his hand.
5
People in al-Sadd al-Gawany Street consider it their moral and religious duty to settle quarrels between married couples. The moment a husband and wife on the street start arguing, be it day or night, their neighbors rush over, listen carefully to the facts from both sides and try to suggest a solution based on the Quran and the traditions of the Prophet, not leaving the couple alone until the storm has died down. There was one exception to this rule: the arguments between the grocer Ali Hamama and his wife, Aisha. No one ever tried to keep them apart during a quarrel. Perhaps that was because, in spite of the ferocity of their arguments, they never resorted to physical violence or attempted to kill each other or commit suicide as other couples did. In fact, their arguments had a somewhat festive and entertaining character, with Ali Hamama and his wife exchanging hilariously filthy curses. As far as the people who lived in the street were concerned, Uncle Ali Hamama and his wife, Aisha, were not quite based in reality. They generally behaved like ordinary people, but they had this other side to them that was close to the rough-and-tumble of street puppet theater.
Ali Hamama! The name on his birth certificate was actually Ali Muhammad Hanafi, so how did he come to be known as Ali Hamama? There were many explanations. People said that when he came to Cairo as a ten-year-old from his village (Ashmoun in the governorate of Menoufiya) to work for Yunus the kebab man in Sayyida Zeinab Square, he was noted for his ability to run faster than anyone else, and so they called him Hamama (“the pigeon”). A competing story was that the nickname was owing to the blue pigeon-shaped tattoo that had been inked on his temple when he was a small boy, as is traditional among the rural people. After being teased mercilessly about it by the people in Cairo, he went to a tattoo parlor and had it removed, but the nickname stuck. There was a third much more enthralling story claiming that when he was young, he used to carry out circumcisions on boys, and the name arose because in Egyptian folklore, the pigeon symbolizes the male member. He used to carry the tools of his trade in a briefcase and go from village to village in the vicinity of Cairo, offering his services, negotiating his fees and carrying out the procedure on the sons of poor peasant farmers.
One day, completely stoned from having smoked a bit too much hashish, he set off to circumcise a child in Qalyubiya, disguising his telltale bloodshot eyes with some eyedrops. The house was decked out with lamps and little flags in celebration of the child’s circumcision. The moment Ali Hamama stepped inside, he was met with a storm of ululation from the crowd of women who seemed to be everywhere—in the hallway, on the roof, in the bedrooms and in the living room, where Ali slurped down a glass of rose sherbet before being led to the room where the boy was waiting. After the women left the room, the father and uncle placed the little boy on the bed, and although he struggled hard to get away, they managed to remove his shorts and spread his legs apart, exposing the pertinent area to Ali Hamama, who, as always before carrying out the procedure, uttered the phrases, “In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful” and “There is neither progress nor might except through Allah,” and then positioned himself in front of the child. He took the boy’s penis in his left hand, and the sharp blade glinted in his right. He pulled the penis toward him, but due to the effects of the hashish, instead of removing the foreskin with one deft cut as usual, Hamama accidentally cut directly into the penis. The boy let out an ear-splitting shriek as blood spurted out like a fountain onto the bed and floor. All hell broke loose as word of the dramatic bleeding spread to the boy’s relatives standing outside, and they rushed into the room in a panic, the women howling and wailing as if the boy had died.
Ali Hamama made some reassuring gestures, but then he sighed, smiling broadly, and nodded as if this were absolutely normal. Trying to sound cheerful, he said, “By the way, the boy has a rosy future. His foreskin is off. Do you know what that means?”
“What does it mean?” asked the boy’s father, scowling with worry.
Hamama forced out a laugh and said, “It means that the kid will grow up to have a thick one that will drive women crazy. For sure!”
He shook his head in jest, but no one smiled at his attempt to mollify them. The child’s screams reverberated through the air like an incessant siren, and rivulets of blood kept streaming down his thighs. Ali Hamama noted the grim faces on the relatives crowding around him and realized that their anxiety would soon turn to fury. Calmly and politely, he asked them to fetch him coffee grounds from the kitchen to staunch the wound while he nipped out to purchase a special cream from the nearby pharmacist. When they suggested that one of them could go and buy it, Ali Hamama insisted that there were a number of preparations with the same name, and they might end up buying the wrong one. Then, having made sure to allay their suspicions and having purposefully left his case of medical instruments behind, Ali Hamama set out toward the pharmacist. He walked with a slow and steady gait in case anyone might be watching from the window, but the moment he was out of sight, he started running as fast as his legs could carry him until he reached a taxi stand, where he paid a driver to take him to Cairo (throwing away money as never before and never since). He thanked the Lord and his lucky stars that the family of the victim had not come looking for him, though perhaps they had expected him to take the train and went in pursuit to the railway station. Moreover, they knew neither his full name nor where he lived.
After that sorry episode, Ali Hamama never again carried out a circumcision, instead se
tting himself up in the small dark grocer’s shop he bought opposite the tram stop at the beginning of al-Sadd Street. He would work all day behind the dilapidated counter wearing his old tarboosh with its slightly battered top and, over his striped galabiyya, a khaki raincoat that made him look like a plainclothes agent from the Ministry of the Interior. He owned three striped galabiyyas, because he believed, for some reason, that striped cotton was the last word in style. He could sit there for hours saying nothing except when absolutely necessary, for as is typical with serious hashish users, he was more inclined toward introspection than any form of movement or activity. His sullen face never bore any expression. As he sat there, his narrow eyes would blink incessantly, and on occasion he would open them wide and try to make out what was going on around him (there was a rumor that he had lost his spectacles years ago and that, as he was too cheap to buy a new pair, his eyesight had become even worse).
Despite his taciturnity, his poor sight and shabby appearance, Ali Hamama was always aware of what was going on. Like a dormant microbe, he lay in wait, saving his energy for the right moment, watching everything in his shop, as customers reeled off orders and as products were fetched, weighed, wrapped and handed over. He watched as money was exchanged and put in the drawer, as the women living in the flats above called down and lowered their shopping baskets on a rope from their balconies and as the serving boy grabbed the money from the baskets and replaced it with their purchases and their change. Ali Hamama watched all this activity with a sensory perception that made up for his poor eyesight. If an argument broke out, he would intervene immediately. What naturally made him angriest was when a customer tried to ask for credit, since, in order to avoid a misunderstanding, he had hung a sign over the doorway that read, “Do not ask for credit as a refusal often offends.” He found that a troublesome customer did not generally make his intentions known from the outset but rather would order, for example, a quarter pound of cheese or a halvah sandwich, and once the items were in hand, he would grin idiotically and say, “I’ll pay you tomorrow, please God.”