'But I don't see any soldiers'.
'Ezbekiya Garden is an enormous camp, packed full of them'.
'Perhaps the explosion was an automobile tire blowing out'.
'Perhaps'.
Fahmy listened intently to what was going on around him without regaining his peace of mind. It was only a few moments before a second explosion was heard. 'Oh… There could no longer be any doubt. It was a bullet like the one before. Where do you suppose it hit? Isn't it a day of peace?'
He felt the uneasiness moving through the ranks of the demonstrators, coming from the front like the heavy wave that a steamboat plowing down the center of a river sends to the shore. Then thousands of people started to retreat and spread out, creating in every direction insane and unruly outbursts of confusion and consternation as they collided with each other. Terrifying shouts of anger and fear rose from the masses. The orderly columns were quickly scattered and the carefully arranged structure of the parade collapsed. Then there was a sharp burst of shots in close succession. People screamed in anger and moaned in pain.
The sea of people surged and swelled, and the waves thrust through every opening, sparing nothing in its way and leaving nothing behind it.
'I'll flee. There’s no alternative. If the bullets don't kill you, the arms and feet will'. He meant to run or retreat or turn, but he did not do anything. 'Why are you standing here when everyone has scattered? You're in an exposed position. Flee'.
His arms and legs began a slow, limp, disjointed motion. 'How loud the clamor is. But what are they screaming about? Do you remember? How quickly memories are slipping away. What do you want? To chant? What chant? Or just call out? To whom? For what? There’s a voice speaking inside you. Do you hear? Do you see? But where? There’s nothing. Nothing. Darkness and more darkness. A gentle motion’s pushing with the regularity of the ticking of a clock. The heart is flowing with it. There’s a whisper accompanying it. The gate of the garden. Isn't that so? It’s moving in a fluid, rippling way and slowly dissolving. The towering tree is dancing gently. The sky… the sky? High, expansive… nothing but the calm, smiling sky with peace raining from it'.
71
Al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad heard footsteps at the entrance to the store. He glanced up from his desk and saw three young men approaching him. They looked serious and grave. They stopped just in front of his desk and said, 'Peace to you and the compassion of God'.
Al-Sayyid Ahmad rose and with his customary politeness responded, 'And to you peace and the compassion of God and His blessings'. He motioned to the chairs and said, 'Please sit down'.
They graciously declined his invitation. The boy in the center asked, 'Sir, are you Mr. Ahmad Abd al- Jawad?'
The proprietor smiled, although there was a questioning look in his eyes, and replied, 'Yes, sir'.
'What do you suppose they want?' he asked himself. 'It’s not likely that they came to purchase anything. Their military gait and serious tone wouldn't be appropriate if they were buying something. Moreover, it’s after seven o'clock. Don't they see that al-Hamzawi is putting the bags up on the shelves to show that the store is closing? Are they collecting donations? But Sa'd’s been released, and the revolution has concluded. I'm not fit for anything now except my evening party. Fellows, you should understand that I haven't bathed my head and face with cologne, combed my hair and mustache, adjusted my cloak and caftan just to meet you. What do you want?'
When he looked at the young man who had addressed him, the face seemed familiar. Had he seen him before? Where? When? He tried to remember. He was certain this was not the first time he had seen him. Then the proprietor’s face relaxed and he asked with a smile, 'Aren't you the fine young man who came forward to save us just in time the day people attacked us in the mosque of al-Husayn, may God be pleased with him?'
The youth said in a subdued voice, 'Yes, sir'.
'So I was right,' he thought. 'Fools say that wine weakens the memory? But why are they looking at me that way? See! These stares don't look like good news. O God, make it good. I take refuge in God from Satan, who should be pelted with stones. For some reason I feel depressed. They've come about something relating to…'
'Fahmy?' he asked. 'Have you come looking for him?… Perhaps you…'
The young man lowered his eyes and said in a trembling voice, 'Our mission is hard, sir, but it’s a duty. May our Lord grant you endurance'.
Al-Sayyid Ahmad suddenly leaned forward, supporting himself on the edge of the desk. He cried out, 'Endurance?… For what!.. Fahmy?'
The young man said with obvious sorrow, 'We are sad to inform you of the death of our brother freedom fighter Fahmy Ahmad…'
Although there was an unmistakable look of belief and dismay in his eyes, the father rejected the news, shouting, 'Fahmy?'
'He fell a martyr in the demonstration today'.
The boy on his right said, 'A noble patriot and sterling martyr was conveyed to a world of pious souls'.
Their words fell on ears deafened by misery. His lips were sealed and his eyes gazed blankly and vacantly. They were all silent for a time. Even Jamil al-Hamzawi was frozen to the spot where he stood beneath the shelves, looking dazed and staring at his employer with sorrowful eyes. Finally the young man murmured, 'His loss has deeply saddened us, but we have no choice but to submit to God’s decree with the patient endurance of Believers, of whom you, sir, are one'.
'They are offering you their condolences,' al-Sayyid Ahmad realized. 'Doesn't this young man know that I excel in offering condolences in circumstances like these? What meaning do they have for an afflicted heart? None! How could words put out the fire? Not so fast… Didn't your heart feel something was dreadfully wrong even before he spoke? Yes… the specter of death appeared before my eyes. Now that death is a reality, as you hear, you refuse to believe it. How can I believe that Fahmy is really dead? How can you believe that Fahmy, who requested your approval just hours ago, when you were short with him-Fahmy, who was full of health, good spirits, hope, and happiness when we left home this morning-is dead? Dead! I'll never see him again at home or anywhere else on the face of the earth? How can I have a home without him? How can I be a father if he’s gone? What has become of all the hopes attached to him? The only hope left is patience… Patience? Oh… Do you feel the searing pain? This really is pain. You were mistaken previously when you occasionally claimed to be in pain. No, before today you've never known pain. This is pain…'
'Sir, be strong and turn your concerns over to God'.
Al-Sayyid Ahmad looked up at the young man. Then in a sick voice he said, 'I thought the time for killing had passed'.
The youth answered angrily, 'The demonstration today was peaceful. The authorities had given permission for it. Top men from all walks of life participated in it. At first it proceeded safely, until the middle section reached Ezbekiya Garden. Before we knew what was happening, bullets fell upon us from behind the wall, for no reason at all. No one had confronted the soldiers in any manner. We had even forbidden any chants in English to avoid provoking them. The soldiers were suddenly stricken by an insane impulse to kill. They got their rifles and opened fire. Everyone has agreed to send a strong protest to the British Residency. It’s even been said that Allenby will announce his regrets for what the soldiers did'.
In the same sick tone, the proprietor complained, 'But he will not bring the dead back to life'.
'Alas, no'.
Al-Sayyid Ahmad, racked by distress, said, 'He’s never participated in any of the violent demonstrations. This was the first demonstration he took part in'.
The young men looked knowingly at each other but did not utter a word. Al-Sayyid Ahmad seemed to be growing impatient with the way they were separating him from Fahmy and the rest of the world. He moaned and said, 'The matter’s in God’s hands. Where can I find him now?'
The young man answered, 'In the Qasr al-Ayni Hospital'. When he saw that the proprietor was in a hurry to leave, he gestured for him to wait. 'There will be a funeral procession for him and thirteen of his fellow martyrs at exactly three o'clock tomorrow afternoon'.
