I sat up until dawn, watching the scenes of battle being broadcast live on television via satellite. When I awoke at noon, Nadeem was not at home. Hamdiya said he had gone to Friday prayers at Al-Azhar Mosque; I guessed that he was going to join the demonstration that would follow the prayers.
Hamdiya said, ‘Today is Mother’s Day. Nadeem forgot to tell me “Happy Mother’s Day”. Nadir didn’t ring, either.’
I was about to scold her for her foolishness, but I didn’t. I said, ‘Happy Mother’s Day, Hamdiya — Happy Mother’s Day three times: from me and from each of the boys until they give you their wishes in person!’
I made myself a cup of tea and then sat down by the telephone. I looked at my watch, with its hands creeping toward one-thirty. All at once I stood up as if I had an appointment, and got dressed. I told Hamdiya, ‘I won’t be late — an hour or two at most, and I’ll be back. Nadeem will have come home and we’ll have lunch together.’
I walked to Kasr al-Aini Street and headed from there to Tahrir Square. The square was peaceful, cars streaming through it as usual, although greater numbers of security vehicles had been stationed there of late. I turned right on Tahrir Street, making for Bab al-Louk Square, then went left toward Talat Harb Square. As soon as I got to Sabri Abu Alam Street I took note of the dense ring of soldiers blocking access to the square. I could hear, but not see, the large demonstration in Kasr al-Nil Street, apparently coming from the direction of Ataba, and Opera Square. Loud chanting. I tried to get closer, but the soldiers told me to back off. I moved aside, off the pavement, with a throng of pedestrians — they, too, were concerned about the demonstration and the invasion of Iraq.
The demonstrators proceeded toward Tahrir from the direction of Mahmoud Bassiouney Street or Kasr al-Nil Street. The security forces opened up the blockade and allowed us to move in the direction of the square. The two streets I had speculated the demonstrators were coming from — from one of them, that is — were still closed off. I reached the square, then turned left into Talat Harb Street. At the door of the Café Riche I saw one of my father’s colleagues in a wheelchair and his wife standing next to him. I greeted them. The woman smiled at me, and the man wept. Perhaps he had been weeping before he saw me. Others were standing near him on the pavement. Then an officer came and ordered everyone to disperse. He said, ‘Standing here is prohibited.’ The woman pushed her husband’s wheelchair, and I moved toward Tahrir. Before I reached the next intersection — the junction of Al-Bustan and Talat Harb Streets — I saw a row of security vehicles on the opposite side of the street from the Nasserist party headquarters, and I noticed the ground was wet, that there was in fact a great deal of water, along with a residue of stones — large ones, small ones, crumbled ones. Then I saw the dogs: big dogs, and with each dog a special guard holding it leashed by an iron chain. I carried on in the direction of the square and found the way to it blocked by a circle of helmets and truncheons. I retraced my steps to Al-Bustan Street. Traces of battle were in evidence there: stones on the ground, and water. My heart raced strangely, and I leaned against a car. I took a deep breath, then tried to breathe regularly. Suddenly I said to myself that something dreadful must have happened to Nadeem. I began to run.
How could I run, when moments before I had felt as if I was about to faint? How can I have paid no attention to the fact that any of the officers might have considered my running a sign that I was a demonstrator who should be arrested? And what route did I take home from Bab al-Louk Square? Falaki Street, or Mansour Street, or else I penetrated the neighbourhood as far as Noubar Street and went by a circuitous route that took me to Kasr al-Aini Street and home from there.
‘Where is Nadeem?’
Hamdiya said, ‘He didn’t mention anything about having lunch with his friends. He’s late!’
By nine o’clock in the evening Nadeem had not appeared, so I began ringing up such friends of his as I knew. Some of them said, ‘We haven’t seen him in days.’ Others said, ‘We were together when the march set off from Al-Azhar Mosque. It was a big demonstration — security couldn’t break it up until they set the police dogs on us and brought in special forces. We started running — we spread out into the alleyways and neighbourhoods, then came back and regrouped. When we moved from Al-Azhar Street to Ataba Square and from there to the city centre, we didn’t see him — nor when we got to Tahrir Square. It was a big crowd, and we thought he must have gone in a different direction, away from the square.’
I rang up contacts of my own who I thought might have news about arrests or injuries. No news yet.
Hamdiya would not stop crying. ‘Maybe they beat him at the demonstration,’ she said, ‘and he fell and got trampled. Or maybe,’ she added, ‘he was wounded and the police took him to the hospital. We must ask at the hospitals,’ she said, and then, ‘We should call Nadir to come and look for his brother.’ She went on and on, and I shouted at her, telling her to be quiet so I could carry on with my telephone calls and inquiries.
She wouldn’t calm down. I decided to go look for him. I went out with her, muttering to myself that she was an insufferable woman. We stopped in at the hospitals, starting with the Es‘aaf Hospital and ending with Kasr al-Aini. At the first hospital Hamdiya lost no time asking about the wounded youths who had been beaten by the security forces during the demonstrations. I took her forcefully by the arm and whispered in her ear, ‘They’re not going to answer that question for you. We should ask whether a young man came to their emergency room hurt or wounded. We’ll give them his name and description.’
We checked the emergency rooms from one hospital to another, in Al-Azhar, Ataba, and Ramses, and then we moved on to Kasr al-Aini.
When we got home I said to Hamdiya, ‘Your idea wasn’t a good one, Hamdiya.’ She was still crying.
I went back to telephoning people I imagined might have information. After that there was nothing we could do but wait. I made two cups of tea and turned on the television to see whether there was any fresh news. Around noon the telephone rang. It was one of the friends I had rung up earlier. He said, ‘Nadeem was one of the young men who were arrested. We sent several lawyers to the stations to find out where each person had been taken. We were told that they may appear before the investigator tomorrow afternoon. I’ll get confirmation and let you know. We’ll stay in touch.’
I conveyed all this to Hamdiya.
What happened then was the last thing I expected. It would never have crossed my mind that it could come to such a scene as what ensued upon that conversation. Hamdiya’s face, already flushed from weeping, turned a still deeper red, and she began yelling at me, ‘It’s your fault! This is what comes of your talking to the boys about politics, all your droning in their ears. You’ve destroyed our household and lost us Nadeem. As soon as he comes home safe and sound and goes to Dubai I’m going to move in with my sister. Then we can go our separate ways.’ She blew her nose, wept, and kept up her bizarre talk. I didn’t know whether I should slap her across the face, shout at her the way she was shouting at me, or go out and leave her.