“Are we done yet?” I asked impatiently.
“Yes. Let’s go to the Champollion entrance,” he said enthusiastically.
I looked to him without understanding, but I went along. At Champollion, we did the same circling of the tank that blocked the entrance there. I finally asked, “What is it? Why are you circling the tanks?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I just want to know what the military wants. They’re not here to protect you. Don’t believe that bullshit. If they wanted to prevent deaths, they would have protected you when the horses broke in. So I just don’t get why they’re stationed here.”
“But what will our endless circling of them achieve?”
“I just feel that maybe if I have a close look at them I’d be able to tell. But my gut tells me that the soldiers and officers standing here don’t really understand much themselves. I’m not sure, but I’m worried. The excessive military presence worries me. Take it from me: Military presence is always a cause for worry. Even if they do nothing at first. Be wary of them. Don’t think that you and your friends are safe because they’re here. One the contrary, they could be a source of danger.”
“Don’t be paranoid,” I said flippantly. “The military worries me too, but there’s no sense in panic. They’ve been sitting here since the last battle and they haven’t harmed us in any way.”
“But eventually they will,” he replied confidently. “They won’t shoot you out of tanks. That they wouldn’t do. But they can give you trouble. Numbers must stay high. Otherwise it’s dangerous.”
We walked around the square and continued to circle the tanks and armored vehicles. My father watched the soldiers intently.
The square was not under threat at that time. Numbers were in the tens of thousands, and there were days when they didn’t even reach a hundred thousand—at peak times, but these were still large numbers. A lot of politics was happening outside the square, and very little within it: the removal of the regime was the top priority. But outside, politicians met, committees gathered, conferences were held, and countless analysts and experts and officials and strategists attempted to design countless plans to end the political stalemate. All that was happening, while the square whistled along lightheartedly: Do whatever you like, we’re staying until the fall of the dictator. None of us was really interested in the politics taking place outside. The square stood with us: prayers and songs and symbolic coffins, jokes and posters, all with a single aim. There was no leaving, whatever the politicians and masters outside decided.
31
Ten years have passed since I last saw Zayn. My feet still sometimes carry me toward the building where he used to work. I would find myself on the steps leading to his office, and catch myself at the last minute. I miss Zayn. Ten years have passed and I still miss him. I want to lay my head in his lap and sleep. For ten years I’ve been passing his building, and can almost smell him and see his shadow. I wait for him to come out to take my hand. I long to walk with him like we used to, with no particular destination.
I found out from my father. I was at university when he called and asked me to come home immediately. I rushed home with a quivering heart. I had a morbid feeling. Someone had called our home phone and told my father. It threw him; he didn’t want to be the bearer of such sad news. But he had to tell me. I could smell death—I was an expert. Like a cat, I could sense death before it happened. Something was lodged in my chest and squeezing my heart. I couldn’t breathe properly. Blood rose to my head, and I could feel its heat in my ears. I listened to what my father had to say. Zayn was dead.
My head felt like it was stuck in a concrete cast. A violent hammering filled my body. I went to my room. I wasn’t crying. I started to hit my head on the wardrobe in rhythm with the hammering inside my body. A massive shiver went through me. Where was this chill coming from? I pushed the wardrobe closed with my head and stared at the dark wood.
What did it mean that he was dead? People didn’t just die like that. I glimpsed my father crying. He wasn’t mourning Zayn; he was mourning me and his own helplessness. For the first time in my life I felt totally lost.
I was in shock for a few months. I discovered that I found the idea of death difficult to grasp. My father gave me sleeping pills. I would wake up and find my face wet with tears. Until I lost Zayn, I didn’t know that people could cry in their sleep. And my tears do not come easily. But in my sleep, they flowed freely, fresh on my face every time I woke up. My father insisted that I sleep next to him. I could feel him check my pulse in the middle of the night, making sure I didn’t die of grief. I don’t know if this was extreme, or if it was my grief for Zayn that was extreme. For the first time in my life, I felt betrayed. When my mom died, I felt ordinary sadness, and as usual I didn’t cry. I didn’t experience that sense of betrayal until I lost Zayn.
Radwa accompanied me to the wake. I managed to hold myself together. I wore black and sat quietly, not saying a word, except—as I remember—when I asked Radwa that we leave the large, eerily quiet marquee where the wake was held. I found myself looking at the faces of other mourners and
