Butterfly Wings: An Egyptian Novel (Modern Arabic Literature) (15 page)

The officer screamed at her, “Get out of my face and let me get on with my job! Otherwise you’ll get the same treatment as her.”

While she was speaking with the officer, a group of guys had carried Hala out of the demonstration. It seemed that they had been trained for it and anticipated everything that had happened.

At that moment, Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni came over to where the officer was standing. He heard him threatening Doha and said to him angrily, “You won’t be hitting anyone if you want to leave here in one piece.”

“Don’t you know who you’re talking to? I’m the law.” As if he had given a signal, the officer’s reply was immediately followed by a vicious attack launched by his men. The security forces attacked the young men around Dr. Ashraf, beating and dispersing them with their heavy batons. At the same time a contingent stopped Dr. Ashraf from moving. The officer himself put the handcuffs on his wrists. Then he said to him, “Now, you come with me down to the station so I can hear your empty threats properly. I couldn’t hear them with all this racket.”

There was total confusion. Apart from Dr. Ashraf, the security forces arrested any demonstrator they could get their hands on.

Doha left the demonstration feeling her heart had been wrenched apart. She could not comprehend what had
happened. It was a completely new experience that had taken her up to the highest heights, and then dropped her into the pits. Disappointment overwhelmed her. She started to ask herself why, whenever she started to soar free, she fell flat on her face in the quagmire of the real world that surrounded her and the people and the country? She was very worried about Dr. Ashraf and sad about what had happened to Hala. She was afraid for the country’s future and apprehensive about her own.

22 Mushira

T
he following day the country was in turmoil. Photographs of the mass protest at the High Court filled the front pages. The headlines reported the first-ever arrest of Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni, university professor and political activist, who had come to embody the masses’ hopes for change and to lead popular action to overthrow the ruling party. The satellite channels also gave prominent coverage to the violence that had occurred and the attacks by the security forces on demonstrators. Some men in plainclothes had sexually assaulted women taking part. One paper had a picture of a demonstrator in his underwear after he had been stripped of his clothes.

That day, Medhat al-Safti called Talaat al-Kenani. He informed him that his uncle, Abdel Rahman Bey, had told him that State Security was in possession of specific information that Talaat’s sister had been present at yesterday’s demonstration, the one held by the rump of the opposition at the High Court. Now, this was a serious development he could not just keep quiet about. He went on to say that he did not understand what had gotten into his sister, and asked Talaat to recommend
she stay at home until the elections were over. Then he would give her a divorce calmly, and not be forced into making her behave herself using his own methods.

As he was relaying all this to Doha, Talaat said he did not believe Medhat al-Safti. “I assured him you have never been to a demonstration in your life. That it was a coincidence you were there, and did not mean you were taking part.”

“No, Talaat,” Doha interrupted. “I was there participating in the demonstration. He has no right to dictate what I do.”

Talaat looked puzzled and asked his sister, “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Absolutely.”

“I hope this isn’t a result of your attitude toward Medhat.”

“The opposite. My attitude toward Medhat is a result of what I’ve come to feel—not toward
him
, because he doesn’t matter to me, but toward my whole life. The life I’m missing, the life I never had. For the first time now I feel alive. I feel I exist. I feel one with the people around me, and that I have an identity and belong to this people and this country. That’s why I reject Medhat. Don’t worry about me, Talaat. I’m fully aware of what I’m doing.”

Talaat listened to her in silence. Then he said, “As long as you’re doing all this by choice, I won’t worry about you.”

“I don’t want you to worry about what Medhat might do either. He’s a coward who’s afraid for himself and his future above anything else.”

“It’s not Medhat I’m scared about. I’m scared of the government as a whole, which he can employ for his own ends.”

“I’ve chosen my path by my own free will. I know it will be hard and full of setbacks, but I have to go all the way to the end. Turning back means giving up the life that I’ve started to get to
know for the first time. Turning back is suicide and I don’t want to commit suicide. I want the life that is opening up before me.”

In the evening, Doha went to see Mushira, the distinguished university professor and her childhood friend. It was more common for them to speak on the phone, but today Doha felt that she wanted to visit Mushira, sit with her at home, and talk face to face.

Mushira welcomed her warmly. “Hello. Hello. Thank God you’re safe.” Doha felt as if she had returned after a long journey. The two friends sat down to green tea.

Mushira was tall and on the skinny side, which gave her a natural grace. She was wearing glasses and had tied her long hair back in a neat bun. Pouring the tea, she said, “This is jasmine tea. I brought it with me from Japan.”

Out of the blue, Doha said, “What are we going to do for Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni?”

Mushira was startled by the question and said, “I still can’t quite take in this transformation, Doha. He is a great man, but why are you concerned about him when you don’t know him?”

Doha confessed to Mushira what she had told no one other than Talaat: she had met Dr. Ashraf on her recent trip to Italy. She said she had found him to be a decent man who believed in what he did, but she said no more. Mushira explained that an even bigger protest was being organized. A protest at the gates of parliament for the very first time. It was to demand the release of Dr. Ashraf and respect for human rights; rights that were stamped on every day, even though Egypt had ratified the international convention decades before.

“I’m coming with you,” said Doha.

“In that case, you have to follow a few instructions,” said Mushira. “First, wear black tomorrow. And record this number
in your phone. If something bad happens, call it at once.”

“Whose number is it?” asked Doha.

“It’s the operations room set up by civil society organizations working for change. It’s manned by volunteers who know what to do and whom to call in case of emergency.” Doha saved the number in her phone, and Mushira went on, “Another thing—save this text message: ‘They have arrested …’ whoever. In case of any arrests, just add the name if you know it, or a description, or the number of people arrested.”

“Who do I send it to?” asked Doha after she had saved the message.

“Also to the operations room. Someone will let everyone know and the message will be passed on to the human rights groups and the local and foreign media.”

Doha’s commitment was plain while she did what her friend, the professor, said. But before she left she said, “Please don’t misunderstand me, Mushira. I believe in what all of you are doing and think it’s admirable, but I have to ask if there is any point to it. Will all these efforts bear the fruit we hope? Or is it our fate for everything to stay as it is?”

Mushira responded calmly, “What matters is that we believe in what we’re doing. The results are in God’s hands. Of course, I’m optimistic. That’s because of Dr. Ashraf, who’s made us all feel optimistic about the prospects for change. Don’t forget that popular movements brought down regimes in Poland and other Eastern European countries. Even in third-world states, where grassroots political power and organization are weak, patient work by the masses mediated by trade unions, human rights groups, and other civil society bodies brought down repressive regimes in Argentina, Brazil, and Chile. And all of them became democracies afterward.”

That night, Doha slept well despite the general upheaval following Ashraf al-Zayni’s detention and Medhat’s low threats. In the morning Doha went to parliament dressed in black. Although it was only ten in the morning, masses of people were already present and the street was nearly blocked.

“Parliament, can we say good morning when the people are in mourning?”

“Parliament, parliament, it’s time to wake up, the Egyptian people are mighty fed up!”

Black-clad crowds filled the streets. Press and TV raced to capture the awesome spectacle. Doha felt she was with her people, that she knew every one of the demonstrators personally. Her black clothing signaled the direct link between her and the other participants.

“See the government of human rights: assaulting women is all right!”

“Why arrest us, boys in blue? What have we ever done to you?”

“Who’s afraid to hear the truth? Only those who’ve robbed the youth!”

Doha led the chanting for the first time. At a moment of quiet, her voice took off with the slogan that had been ringing in her head since the previous demonstration:
“No to fear and giving up, we’re all done with shutting up!”
The crowd took it up after her, one, two, three times.

A young woman came up and introduced herself to Doha. “I’m Salwa al-Eleimi, a journalist with the independent
al-Sabah
.” She asked if she could interview Doha for the paper. Doha agreed and spoke from her heart in criticism of the regime, saying that it had monopolized political life and punished anyone who tried to practice their natural right to participate in politics. She said that the arrest of Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni was a serious mistake, and that the party would pay a high price. Dr. Ashraf was a popular leader and had come to embody
the hopes of the masses. For that reason his arrest was an act of political stupidity that had only inflamed matters. Then she said, “If Dr. Ashraf is not released, the people will not shut up about it, and the party will have to bear the consequences of their anger.”

Salwa thanked her, saying, “You’ve encapsulated the whole situation.” Then she asked Doha for her name.

Without any hesitation, Doha said, “Doha al-Kenani.”

Salwa looked her over and said, “The fashion designer?” Doha nodded and Salwa asked if she’d rather her name did not appear.

“I have nothing to be afraid of,” said Doha. “Those are my opinions and I’m not ashamed of them.” Behind her the crowd was shouting,
“No to fear and giving up, we’re all done with shutting up!”

With each day that passed, Doha felt she had reached new heights. That day, she was brimming with self-confidence when she left the demonstration. She walked from Parliament Street downtown to her brother’s house in Mohandiseen without getting tired. She did not want to go by car; cars were confining. She wanted to merge with the people. The demonstration had broken up and people had gone in various directions, but the streets were still crowded. She felt that people did not want to leave the streets and go home, and she did not want to leave the people.

When she got home, she went straight to her room and slept better than she had slept for years. She slept from that afternoon until the following day.

Doha was woken by the sound of Mervat’s voice. Mervat was holding a copy of the newspaper that had interviewed Doha. The interview appeared on the front page under the
headline “Medhat al-Safti’s wife warns the regime: ‘Release Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni or face the wrath of the people!” A strapline underneath read “Doha al-Kenani dressed in mourning shares the people’s anger,” and there was a three-column-wide photograph of her at the demonstration dressed in black.

Mervat was agitated and said, “I’m scared for you, Doha.” Doha examined the newspaper without responding. She was still not quite awake. Mervat repeated, “I tell you, I’m scared.”

Doha replied calmly, “Good morning!”

23 Amna

I
t was the happiest day of Ayman’s life. He wanted to tell everyone he knew what had happened. He wanted everyone to know that he now had a mother like other people, and that she was alive and well. He wanted to say that he had met her and that she had taken him in her arms. She had cried as she told him that she had not seen him since he was one year old.

It was an emotional scene. The moment Mother fainted, he knew she had recognized him. Her collapse was proof that she was his mother and that he was her son.

When she came to, she kept touching him as if she wanted to make sure he was really there. She kept staring at him and stroking his face, whose features were swimming in her tear-filled eyes. She did not sob or moan. Her crying was silent and sad.

For a while the tears in his own eyes battled with the smile on his face, which soon spread to all his features. Mother said, “You’ve grown up, Ayman. You’ve become a man.”

“I feel like I’m still a small child. I’ve only just been born.”

“Who is this, Mama?” asked the girl.

“He’s your brother, Marwa,” Mother replied, as though her words were enough to explain the incredible situation, which poor Marwa was having difficulty taking in. She had been shocked by the sight of her mother lying on the floor by the front door, and then amazed at the sight of her embracing this stranger, who she said was her brother.

Mother closed the front door and led her son into the reception. They sat close together on the couch across from the door. Marwa sat listening on the adjacent chair.

Ayman collected himself and said, “My heart guided me, Mama. I knew I had a mother. I didn’t believe you were dead. My heart would tell me you were still alive and well.”

“Who told you I was dead?” asked Mother with a sad look. Ayman did not answer. Then, as if she had heard the answer, she said, “May God forgive him for everything.”

There was a few moments’ silence as she looked at her son’s face, at his whole appearance, from the hair on his head, which flopped over his forehead as it had done when he was a baby, to the t-shirt, jeans, and white trainers he was wearing. “You’ve grown so much, Ayman,” she said. “If I had bumped into you on the street, I wouldn’t have recognized you.”