“I’m scared,” I said.
“There’s no reason to be scared,” she replied. “Just cry, Nadia. Crying will make you feel better.”
We were young then. We hadn’t gotten used to losing loved ones. We didn’t know how to deal with death. And because we were young, panic was the appropriate response. Real sadness came years later, when it all sank in.
When I got home after the wake, I went straight to the kitchen. I took out some vegetables and rock-hard cubes of meat from the freezer. I put the bags of frozen food under the hot tap and stood staring at them, feeling a spray of hot water on my arms and face. I stood there for half an hour, maybe longer, without moving. Finally, I touched the cubes of meat and found them a bit softer. I peeled a large onion and let the stinging tears flow. I cut the onion slowly, then put it in the copper pot, added some butter, and stood quietly in front of the stove. I recalled my moments with Zayn—his tenderness, his soft words, and how I had begged him to stop talking about death. I remembered the melancholy of his poetry; remembered him laughing at my reaction and stroking my hand. He insisted on reciting the sad words into my ear. I would object and try to get up but he held me gently and read:
I asked you to want me, as you would want the season of fall
Or a river
I asked you to cross the river as if you were me, on my own
And to spread across the fields alone, as if we were together
I asked you to be
And not to be
I asked you to want me
As you would want the fall
To wither in you
Before we grow together
I asked you to want me
As you would want a river
And let me lose my memory in the fall
Before we walk together
In everything that we are
United by what keeps us apart
I burned the onion and let the meat go yellow under the hot water. I stood helpless before the stove: my hands felt paralyzed and I couldn’t even lift the pot. I don’t know how much time passed like this, but it was enough for everything to be ruined. I threw it all away—the meat and onion and pale vegetables. I stared at the mixture in the large garbage can, then went to bed.
32
Another day in the square that I pronounced miserable the moment I opened my eyes. I wished I’d just died in my sleep, because whatever we did, “there’s no point in anything.”
Galal sighed and said, “Oh, the gloom is starting early today. Good morning, Nadia.”
I rubbed my eyes. “And what would make it good? Eighteen days have passed since all this started, Galal. You’ve been telling me for eighteen days that this is a revolution and that everything will be fine. There’s no point! Stop being so stubborn and admit it.”
Rima and Layla exchanged glances. Galal helped me to my feet and announced he would take me for a morning tour. I hung my head dejectedly and let him lead me by the hand around the traffic island. For a while he talked and I listened.
“You know, Nadia, we’ve been sleeping here for two weeks. You’ve been coming and going. Rima and Layla too. Lots of people come and go. But there are people who haven’t left at all. They have been in the square the whole time. That determination is so strange. People could have left when the army was deployed, or when the square got attacked and they saw death close up. They could have left when numbers and hope dwindled, when ‘sightseers’ started visiting the square like they were visiting the zoo. You know? They could have left when the media started to disown them, called them traitors and mercenaries. They could have left many times over. But do you know, my dear Nadia, why they haven’t left?”
I looked at my shoes, whose color was buried and forgotten under layers of dirt, and said, “I only know that it doesn’t make a difference whether they stay or leave.”
“OK, I’ll tell you. They haven’t left because they still have hope, and they are determined to achieve what they came for. I don’t think they will budge. It would take superpowers to make them. Although, you know, today they might actually decide to leave. Guess why.”
I looked up for the first time since we began our walk and found that we were standing at the entrance of Qasr al-Nil Bridge.
Galal continued: “Because they will run off when they wake up and see your despair-inducing face, Nadia. Your face is a picture of bleakness. Your low spirits will empty out the square. So, my love, I suggest you take yourself for a long walk outside the square, for an hour or two or ten; see what your conscience tells you. This is to protect the revolution, Nadia.”
I looked at him in disbelief. “Are you throwing me out, Galal?”
He laughed. “No, my dear, I’m just trying to save our morale. I don’t want the protestors to wake up to this long face.”
“Morale? Whatever, Galal. You know I’m right and just don’t want to admit it.”
As he walked away,
