Rebels by Accident (16 page)

“Mariam,” Muhammad says. “Things can get crazy. And dangerous.”

“If you won't drive me, I'll take a cab or a bus. I'll walk if I have to.”

“Okay, okay, I'll take you.”

“We can't worry your
sittu
,” Ahmed says.

“So we won't. She's resting now. When she wakes up, just tell her we couldn't reach Hassan by phone, that his battery died or something. Tell her we went to the mall to pick her up.”

Ahmed looks so scared, I'm afraid he's going to vomit.

“Don't worry,” I say, grabbing both his forearms. The Safi bottles jiggle together softly. “We'll be back soon, I promise. Just, whatever you do, don't let Sittu leave the hospital. She needs to take those tests.”

“She's a very determined woman,” Ahmed says, looking even more freaked out than he did a minute ago.

“She's not the only one.” Muhammad looks at me, and I can't tell whether he thinks this is a good thing or whether he's wishing he'd never bought me that juice.

“Ahmed, listen, all you have to do is tell her that you are waiting for me and Deanna to get back before we can leave. Then, when Deanna and I get back, I'm sure together we can all convince her to listen to the doctor.”

I'm surprised by how easily these plans are coming to me. I guess a lot more of Deanna has rubbed off on me than I thought.

Ahmed nods. “You are the dream team,” he says, almost smiling. “Here.” He hands Muhammad and me a bottle of water. “You may get thirsty.”

We're not going on a journey into the Sahara. We're only going downtown. But it is very kind of him. “Thanks,” I say, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. “I'm so glad you annoyed Deanna on the plane.”

Both Muhammad and Ahmed look confused, but I don't take the time to explain.

“Come on,
yalla
,” I say to Muhammad. “We have to find Deanna.”

Muhammad leans on his horn, but no one moves out of our way. Not one driver even turns to look. We roll forward slowly, then stop.

“It would be faster if we crawled,” he says just as some guy jumps on the hood of the car. Muhammad rolls down the window and shouts, waving for the guy to get off. The guy turns around and smiles at us.

“Is this the way you hitchhike here in Egypt?” I look at Muhammad to see whether he gets my joke, but he beeps his horn again. Still, the guy doesn't move off the hood.

“I'm sorry I got you into all of this,” I say.

“Too many people. We're going to have to walk the rest of the way,” Muhammad says as he puts his foot on the brake. The guy slides off the hood but leaps right up again and moves into the crowd along the side of the street. “When you get to know me better”—Muhammad takes the key from the ignition—“you'll understand I don't do anything I don't want to do. So please, no apologies.”

He's planning on me getting to know him better? Awesome.

Muhammad sets the emergency brake. “We'll walk.” He opens his door.

“It's okay to just leave the car in the middle of the road?” I ask.

“No one is moving anymore, and I think the police are otherwise occupied,” he says.

My stomach starts to hurt. Until that moment, I wasn't worried that Deanna was in real danger. She usually manages to take care of herself, but the one thing she can't do is keep her mouth shut. That doesn't make you popular in a police state.

“How far do we have to walk?”

“It's about half a kilometer to KFC.”

“You're hungry? I thought we were going to Tahrir Square.”

“It's on the square. We're meeting Hassan there.” Without locking his car, Muhammad starts to walk, and I follow. He's walking through the crowd, and I can hardly keep up with him. I think maybe it'd be safer if I held on to the back of his jacket, but when I reach for it, some random guy who's not Muhammad turns around.

“Excuse me,” I say, moving past him, thinking the next guy must be Muhammad, but after a few yards, I realize I've completely lost sight of him. I can't see anything except the people right next to me. It really sucks being so short.

I jump and shout, “Muhammad!” Several men turn around, but none of them is my Muhammad.
My
Muhammad.

Where is he? I jump again. I don't see him, but then again, maybe I do. I have no idea what the back of his head looks like. I can't remember the color of his jacket or whether he was even wearing a jacket. I'm starting to feel more anxious. Even though I'm used to the crowds in New York City, there are so many people around me now that it's getting scary. And it's not just young people, like Sittu thought. There are old people too. There's even a woman in a wheelchair with an older man pushing her along.

I wonder how Sittu is doing. I haven't felt much like asking God for anything in a long time because I didn't believe God was listening. But now, when I pray for Deanna, Muhammed, and Sittu, I truly hope God is hearing every word.

The crowd's moving faster, pulling me along like I'm on one of those moving airport sidewalks. I have no choice but to go forward. Did Muhammad say the square was half a kilometer away? How far is that? I always get metric measurements mixed up. Is a kilometer three and a half miles? Or is a centimeter three and a half inches, and a kilometer is about a mile? I hear sirens like the ones in French movies—a
whaa-a whaa-a
sound. It's getting louder. I wonder again how far I am from the square.

Muhammad, where are you?
How I wish I were the little boy next to me, sitting on his dad's shoulders. Then I could see what's ahead. I wonder what Baba is doing now. Seeing all of these people here standing up for Egypt would make him happy—a real happy, not the kind of happy he pretends because he doesn't like me to see him sad.

The sirens grow louder, so we must be getting closer. My heart pounds so hard, I think it's going to rip through my chest.

Breathe. Breathe.
What am I worried about? I'll just go to where Muhammad said we would meet Hassan. OMG, I can't remember what he said. My brain is, like, shutting down. What is wrong with me? I come here to find Deanna, and now I'm lost.

What if I never see Muhammad again? I didn't even get to thank him for all his help. To kiss him. He's the only guy I've ever felt like I wanted to kiss—I mean
really
kiss. And then I lose him in less than two minutes. Why am I so useless?

Think, Mariam. Think
.
What
would
Deanna
do
if
she
were
here? She'd pause, breathe, and… That's right, I remember: it was a fast-food place—American. Pizza Hut? No, no, what was it? Maybe if I see the place, it will come to me. It's on the square, right? So how many fast-food places can there be?

I push my way through the crowd. People let me by. No one pushes back or curses me out. The sirens are loud, but everyone around me is chanting in Arabic. I don't understand, but it's like when I heard the morning call to prayer. It feels like there's something greater than me, that something, well, spiritual is happening. The chanting pulls me forward, and I don't stop until I have no place to move. Everyone stands like we're at an outdoor concert in Central Park (which, of course, I've only watched on television since my parents never let me leave the apartment), but instead of music, there's chanting. I must be almost at the square now, because I can hear someone leading the chant over loudspeakers.

“Excuse me,” I say to a girl who doesn't look too much older than I am, chanting with so much force her face is as red as ketchup. I touch her arm to get her attention. She turns to me. “Do you speak English?” I ask.

“A little,” she says.

“Can you tell me where we are?”

She raises her eyebrows, and I'm about to ask someone else when she asks, “Are you a tourist?”

“I'm Egyptian,” I shout, and for the first time in my life, I don't feel shame. I feel awesome.

She gives me another look, this one more confused than the last. “Tahrir Square, of course. The regime must end.” She points up at the buildings in front of us, and when I see all of the banners and Egyptian flags that people are waving, I start to chant too.

Well, I try, but I can't quite make out the words, so after I mumble a bit, I say, “
Shukran
” and start moving through the crowd again. It takes me forever, but I finally reach an area where there seem to be stores, and there it is: KFC.

That's it! KFC. Muhammad said KFC
. I make it to the front of the restaurant, but I don't see Muhammad or Hassan. When I go inside, the only person there is a man standing behind the counter. He shouts to me in Arabic, waving a sandwich like the people outside are waving flags.

I couldn't eat even if I had the money to pay for it, which I don't. No money, no cell phone, no contact information for anyone I know here, and I can't even remember the name of the hospital Sittu is in. I'm probably the worst-prepared protester Cairo has ever seen.

Am I a protester? Did I really just call myself a protester? I came here today to find Deanna, but now all I want to do is join her. I want to join all of these people. Deanna was so right; this is history happening right here and now. And it's Sittu's history and Baba's history. And it's my history. I don't have to watch it happening on television, because I'm here. I am Egyptian.

The man says something to me in Arabic.

“I don't understand,” I say. “I'm sorry.”

“Please, take this food.”

I put my hand in my pocket and pull out not even a piece of lint.

“No, here. Here. For free, no money.” The man runs from behind the counter and puts the sandwich in my hand. “Today we all need our strength. Today is the beginning of our freedom. Eat.”

“
Shukran
.” I take a bite. It tastes like nothing I've ever eaten at KFC or anywhere else. It's delicious. “What is this?” I ask.

He smiles. “You like it?”

“Very much.” I smile back.

“Chicken and
ful
—”

“
FUL
?!” Oh my God. I roll up my sleeves, looking for the hives. I clear my throat, expecting it to close any second.

“Where's the WC?”

I'm sure he hears the panic in my voice, because he leads me to the bathroom, almost sprinting. He opens the door for me. There's no mirror.

“I need a mirror,” I say.

He looks as freaked out as I feel, but he shows me to a back room where there is a mattress on the floor, one chair, a small table, and, on the wall, a full-length mirror. I examine my face, my ears, my neck, but I don't see one hive. Not one. I've been allergic to
ful
all of my life. How can there not be one hive?

“Is there a problem with my sandwich?” the man asks.

“Allergic,” I say, scratching my arm for emphasis, not because it itches.

“Allergic to
fu
l
?”

“Yes, I'm Egyptian and allergic to
ful
,” I say before he can comment like the man at the ice-skating rink. “It's been years since I've had any, but when I was a kid, I used to break out in a rash all over my body. But now, nothing,” I say, sticking out my tongue again in the mirror.

“Maybe you're not allergic to
ful
made in Egypt!” he says, grinning so wide I'm afraid he may put a crack in both his cheeks.

“Maybe.”

“I'm glad you are well,” he says.

“Me too,” I say, walking out of the room and right into Hassan.

“Hassan!”

“Mariam!” We both jump up and down.

“I can't believe I found you.” Hassan looks at me like he's never been happier to see another person in his life. “When Muhammad showed up and said he lost you in the crowd, I was so worried. Well, actually, I was angry. How could he lose you like that?”

“Muhammad? Where is he?”

“He went to find you.”

“Why didn't he just wait here?”

“You're American. How could you find your way?”

“Well, I'm Egyptian too, and now we don't know where he or Deanna are.”

“I found Deanna,” Hassan says, sounding more worried than excited.

“Is she okay? What happened to her?”

“I'm sure she's fine.” I can hear a loud
but
coming my way.

“She was part of a sit-in. More of a lie-in—”

“What does that even mean?”

“All these people were lying on the ground, refusing to move until Mubarak steps down…”

“She was lying on the street? The dirty street?”

“They were chanting, ‘End the regime,' and I heard her voice.”

“In English?” I say.

“Arabic.”

Deanna can chant in Arabic. Why is this not a surprise to me?

“She wouldn't come back with me. I begged her. I finally had to tell her about Sittu in the hospital. That's when she got up and shouted, ‘This is for Sittu!' and ran into the crowd. I've been trying to find her ever since.” Hassan lowers his head as he says this.

The KFC man tries to give him a sandwich, but he refuses, leaving the KFC man looking sad.

“He's not hungry now, but I'm sure he'll eat it later.” I turn to Hassan. “Take the sandwich,” I whisper.

“
Shukran
,” Hassan says.

I crumple what's left of my sandwich in my hand so the KFC man doesn't see it. “Now we have to go find our friends,” I tell the man.

“
Asalaam
alaikum
. May you find your friends safe.”

“
Alaikum
salaam
,” Hassan and I say. When we step out into the street, my eyes sting like someone just squirted lemon juice into them.

“Cover your mouth and nose.” Hassan hands me a handkerchief. “Tear gas.”

Blinking hard against the smoke, it's hard to believe it was only yesterday when Deanna, Sittu, and I were standing in the bright, clear sun at the pyramids.

The line of policemen ahead of us is a blur, though I can see they look stern, like the guys at the airport, only here they have helmets with plastic visors over their faces and they are holding up shields. They swing their batons in the air as they move through the crowd.

“We should leave,” Hassan shouts over the noise.

I pull the handkerchief from my mouth long enough to say, “Not until we find our friends.”

“The police are not going to stop,” Hassan says, and almost on cue, a tank shoots water into the crowd. We stand off to the side, but I can still feel the force.

“I have to get you out of here,” Hassan says into his sleeve.

Now some people are running—not away, but toward the police. The crowds of people head toward the tank, pushing against the force of the water.

“Look, Hassan,” I say. “The tank is moving back.”

“I can't believe what I'm seeing,” he says. “The police are retreating.”

Hassan watches a guy run right at the line of police, his body his only weapon. “What courage.”

“Oh my God! It looks like Omar!”

The police pull him to the ground and start beating him with their batons.

“What?” Hassan asks over the roar of the crowd.

“Omar!” I shout and run toward him, but Hassan soon catches me and pulls me back.

“I have to see if it's him,” I say.

“Mariam! Stop,” Hassan says as I struggle to get free of his grip. “This is not your cause.”

Abruptly, I stop struggling. “I don't care,” I shout. “The police are beating Omar to death. We have to stop them!”