The three drawers in my father’s desk were my magic world. In the first, he kept important documents—his ID, passport, sometimes a bit of money. The second drawer held all his prescription glasses since he was a child, a beautiful brown pipe, an old vitamin C tube where he kept copper and silver coins from different countries, binoculars that he once allowed me to use to watch a ballet at the opera, many unused packs of medicine, newspaper cuttings (probably cut out years ago, then forgotten along with their contexts), photos of me at different stages of my life, photos of us at my childhood birthdays and on the beach in Montazah and Marsa Matruh, countless photos of the woman he loved before my mother, and photos of them together in different countries—she was tall and slim and always wearing very big sunglasses. There were pictures of my father with friends all over the world—Berlin, Baghdad, London, New York, Malaysia, and other places I didn’t recognize.
That second drawer was filled with details and memories that belonged to my father alone. Many things were indecipherable to me, and he always eluded my questions with an enigmatic smile. But the third drawer was my favorite. It was full of papers. Nothing but papers. A mass of handwritten papers—the large brown envelope with the letters to my mother, many unfinished stories, manuscripts of short stories that were later published, manuscripts from other writers. I liked to open that drawer while my father was asleep and read everything I could read. The third drawer was inexhaustible: I would find something new every day, new papers and new stories. All the stories were beautiful, even if most were unfinished.
10
My father taught me never to stay on the margins. I must stand firmly inside the picture and not let anyone push me to the sidelines; otherwise I might lose the desire to live and become useless. As I marched with the crowds in the direction of the Ministry of Interior, that thought filled my head. Things were heating up. Some of the young people were starting to lose their tempers in the face of the provocative, cocky smiles of the Central Security officers. I reached for my father and pulled him by the hand to make sure we walked in the middle of the march. Because of his illness and his weak heart, he wouldn’t have been able to run if things turned violent, so I slowed down to give us some room for escape. We entered the street leading to the ministry. The march was huge. The chants echoed in my head, powerful and defiant. So many people and so much zeal—but all I heard were echoes, and all I saw was my father’s face, his eyes bright with anticipation and awe.
The protestors started to throw stones at the security forces, or maybe it was the other way around—I wasn’t sure who started it; it seemed to happen at an agreed moment. I quickly pulled my father toward a nearby building, worried I wouldn’t be able to protect him. I whispered in his ear, “Let’s try to leave by the back streets and pretend we were just passing through.” He didn’t answer and kept his eyes on the battle with growing concern. “This violence is foolish. The bastards will kill those kids.”
“Bastards”—the term that always and forever, whenever it was uttered by my father, referred to the security forces, all and any security forces, in a sweeping generalization that allowed for no exceptions.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Things have to calm down soon. Let’s just leave.”
We began to move. As I tried to determine the trajectories of stones over our heads, a small one hit my shoulder. My father panicked. “What was that? Are you hurt?”
“Not at all, Baba. It was just a pebble.”
We walked until we were farther away from the action and quickened our pace as we approached Tahrir Square. By the time we got there, my father’s breathing had quickened and his chest was wheezing—not at all reassuring. “Baba, you’re going home now,” I told him. “This is too much for you, and we have no idea what’s going to happen.”
“But I don’t want to leave. Listen, when I get tired I’ll tell you to put me in a taxi.”
“Oh, so you’re just going to abandon me here? I thought you would at least tell me I should go home too.”
He went quiet for a few seconds, and then said, “Look, even if I tell you to leave, you never would. And I wouldn’t have the heart to tell you to leave in the first place. You must stay. Stay close to where it’s happening. Stay with the people. Let’s see what the bastards are going to do next.”
We walked around the square and kept running into friends and colleagues. My father also met friends and began to feel better; his breathing was calmer as he got into lively discussions. I stayed close to him and kept an eye on the time. The square was filling up. A skinny young man climbed a lamppost near the middle and installed a pair of big speakers. He started to say something into a microphone—his voice was distorted and barely decipherable, and I strained my ears to hear. “This is the Radio of the Revolution. Statement number one.”
I didn’t hear the rest because I burst out laughing. It was a revolution now, the boy had decided. Did a few thousand people in the streets of Cairo, and in some of the provinces, make a revolution? I couldn’t stop laughing.
Then I heard
