“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, he 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.”