Later on, when my father took me to live with him in our new apartment, he came up with another strategy: stories that ended only when my plate was cleared. Tales of fantastical animals, giant gateways into magical worlds, colorful creatures on planets in faraway galaxies, stories about children—“Once upon a time there was a boy called Galal and a girl called Galila.” My storyteller father made up tales of animals who rebelled against the kings and laws of the jungle, and he didn’t give up until I opened my mouth for the spoon.
When my father took me from my grandmother and I started going to a school in Heliopolis, I began to experience feelings of estrangement, something they say all children, who are living mostly inside their own private worlds, occasionally feel. I really hated school. I hated studying and I hated all the teachers and nuns; I couldn’t stand the classes and all the words and numbers they made us learn. I think it must have been around that time that I developed my fierce stare and my steely armor began to form. I became known for being antagonistic. I spoke very little and was constantly being compared to my cousins, who were of course friendly and sweet. “I don’t know why she can’t be more like the other girls in the family,” my mother would say, with an underlying bitterness, to anyone who was listening.
At school, there was this annual charity event and everyone would be in a frenzy preparing for it for weeks. Donations were collected and kids from several orphanages were invited to spend “a lovely day” at our school. Girls from neighboring schools would come to help. Everyone was supposed to get involved. The teachers prescribed poems and speeches that we had to learn and recite for our orphaned brothers and sisters, in the presence of the district director of education. I would spend that day every year hiding in the small enclosure between the playground and the nuns’ residence. No one ever went there except for the dada, the taciturn school nurse. I would sit on the lawn with the skirt of my school uniform gathered between my legs and a book on my lap. The dada often saw me and placed a finger on her lips to reassure me that she wouldn’t tell, and I would pass the day reading and dozing on the grass, until the noise of the other kids told me that the school day was coming to an end. Then I would gather my things and join them.
6
He leaned on my arm as we marched in the direction of the square. I could hear him struggling to breathe but I urged him on anyway. We needed to keep up with the other marchers and escape the state security men who were scattered everywhere. We kept walking at moderate speed. My friends were at the front, but I couldn’t go to them because I didn’t want to let go of his arm. He whispered to me, “Is this the revolution then? Am I really going to witness a revolution before I die?”
“It looks like it could be. Just tell me if you’re tired, and I’ll take you home and come back.”
“Are you kidding? Fifty years I’ve waited for this day. I’m not going anywhere and you’re staying with me!”
He smiled and I smiled back as we walked on along the downtown streets that were leading us to where the battle was.
Demonstrations filled the streets of Cairo. No one could have predicted the turnout. Around us were faces of all colors, of all ages and classes. There were young women with colored veils framing their angry and determined faces, and others with uncovered hair swinging behind them as they chanted in high voices that I couldn’t help but chuckle at. I was too embarrassed to join in the chants. My thin voice wouldn’t convince anyone. I thought I’d leave the chants to the rough voices of men, and held on to my father’s hand.
“Where did all these people come from?” he whispered again.
“Apparently from Facebook,” I answered, unsure. “Look, Baba, I don’t know, but they’re here. I just hope it ends well.”
“Of course it will, silly!” He seemed confident now. “If anything was ever going to end well, it’s this.”
I gave him a look full of doubt.
We kept on walking through the narrow streets. The numbers increased as we neared the Ministry of Interior. I didn’t want to go there. There would certainly be trouble. In a calm tone, as if I weren’t really scared, I said, “Why don’t we go grab a coffee somewhere until things calm down a bit?”
“Really?” He looked at me sharply. “You want to leave all this? For a coffee? And you know I don’t drink coffee because of my blood pressure.”
The chants picked up around us. I had to shout for him to hear me: “Have tea then! Anise tea or something. Let’s just go have a drink!”
“Listen!” he snapped back. “I want to go on. If I
