“Anyway, the vans didn’t explode. But the smoke mixed with the tear gas was so strong. What tipped me over the edge, though, was when some of the boys did not want to let the soldiers out of the vans, and I started screaming, ‘Let them out! Please let them out! We can’t let them die in there!’ It was very dramatic, but the thought had filled me with panic. Those of us who wanted to save the soldiers won in the end, and they let them out. You know, Baba, they were like scared rabbits. They came out with their hands on the backs of their heads like prisoners of war. An escape route was created behind the vans, so that the soldiers could immediately leave the bridge. Otherwise people would have eaten them alive. They’d been shooting at us all day long. All day long we’d been withstanding beatings and tear gas and birdshot, which can cause a lot of damage. Not to mention the live bullets we could hear throughout the day. It was one long horror movie.”
My father asked, “Were you alone all that time?”
“Oh no, I met everyone I know on that bridge. Almost everyone I know was there. But I would see people for a couple of minutes, then lose them. They would run or be pulled away. You don’t get it. It was a massive battle—massive!”
He listened, awed and apprehensive, then said, “I saw things on TV but couldn’t understand what was happening. I had to be out there. I shouldn’t have stayed home like a baby. Fuck this weak health and this weak heart of mine!”
I tried to distract him. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes. What else could I do? I had to take the damn medicine. Go on.”
So I went on: “Once all the vans were burned, things calmed down a little, or that’s what I thought. I left the bridge and met some friends and walked with them toward the square. The sun was setting. Something odd was going on. The security forces were almost nowhere to be seen. The sky was filled with smoke. People were still chanting, and I’ll tell you something—at one point I was leading the chant. People chanted after me, even though my voice was high-pitched and silly.
“I didn’t get to the square in the end. Smoke was coming out of the big building on the corniche, Mubarak’s party headquarters. It was on fire. People were running out of it carrying stuff. I was on the other side of the road. I could hardly stand, but couldn’t walk either. People were carrying chairs, computers, documents, and desk lamps out of the building. Just random stuff.
“And all around me on the street, people made predictions: a curfew, a presidential speech, and all sorts of other things. But I panicked when they said the army was deployed. I mean, shit, the army! Were they going to shoot at us out of tanks now?”
“Yes, I saw the tanks and armored vehicles on TV. My heart nearly stopped.”
“Keep that evil thought away,” I said, waving away the bad omen. “I wanted to run, you know. I mean, Central Security vans and guards and officers—we can handle those. But the army! I had only ever seen armored vehicles at the Sixth of October Museum! Anyway, for some reason people decided to deal with the situation like it was a wedding or a mulid festival. They started running toward the tanks, climbing on top of them, hugging the army soldiers, and chanting for them! I didn’t really get it, but my feeling was that people were so scared and tired they decided to embarrass the army into friendliness!”
The TV droned on with the news as I told my story. I was quiet for a few moments, then realized I didn’t have the strength to tell any more. I had seen a lot of blood that day. I didn’t share all the details with my father. I didn’t tell him about the boy’s blood that, while a bit fainter now, still stained my clothes. I was close to him when he fell, and it was no stray bullet that hit him. I did not want to touch him. I did not want to touch the blood. But he almost fell into my arms. He was already dead. The bullet had gotten him in the chest, in the heart, I’m not sure, but he died immediately. His blood was on my clothes. That was all I worried about. My heart was beating all over the place. A bystander had lifted me off him, shouting, “The boy’s dead! The boy’s dead, you dogs!” This wasn’t the first dead boy, but he was the first whose blood stained me. I crawled away on my hands and knees and stood up at the edge of the crowd. I visualized throwing myself into the river, but I didn’t do it. I had to get back to my father. I had to tell him what I had seen and reassure him that I was OK.
I didn’t throw myself off. Maybe I should have. But I didn’t.
15
I read a lot about the prison years in the sixties. Most of that generation of intellectuals spent about five years in detention,
