Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

“I will not talk about such things.”

The punches started again. The man on my right was aiming his punches at my head. I started to feel dizzy.

“When did you join the organization?” the investigator asked.

“What organization?”

“Kamel. Wise up! Don’t throw your future away. We have many means at our disposal. We can do what we want with you. If you make a confession, I promise you I will let you turn witness for the state, and you’ll walk scot-free.”

It would have been natural for my mother to break down and for me to comfort her, but the opposite happened. My nerves were shattered, and it was my mother who made light of the catastrophe. I could not stop imagining Kamel with his hands shackled and the policeman and security agents standing there with him. In the days that followed, I did not do a moment of studying. I just sat at my desk, unable to stop crying and unable to concentrate. I was astounded at how composed my mother managed to remain. I went with her to the police station in Sayyida Zeinab. The officer in charge took our names. He was a polite man and gave an embarrassed smile.

“Kamel was not brought to this station,” he said.

“But the officer who arrested him,” my mother told him, “stated he was taking Kamel to the Sayyida Zeinab police station.”

“Look, madam,” the officer replied, “it sounds like Kamel has been arrested by state security. They generally give out misleading information to the family of the accused.”

He said nothing for a moment and then wrote something down on a sheet of paper. “I would advise you to go and ask at the directorate. I will give you the name of a friend of mine there.”

I still remember the name of the officer at the directorate. Fathy al-Wakil. He made a few telephone calls and then told us that Kamel was being held in the foreigners’ prison. It was far away, and they would not allow us to see him, but finally al-Wakil managed to wheedle permission for us to go and see Kamel on Friday, the weekly visit day. We went home and found Mitsy waiting for us in Aisha’s apartment. My mother and I both hugged her. Then we went over to our apartment along with Aisha. We sat in the sitting room sipping tea. Mitsy was nervy and pale. My mother told her and Aisha what we had been doing that day.

“I’m coming along on Friday,” Aisha declared.

Mitsy decided to sleep over with us that night, and then she started spending whole days with us, only going back to her apartment to sleep. As for Aisha, yet again she showed her devotion. She did not leave us for a single moment. She sent a lawyer called Gameel Barsoum to see Kamel. He was a kind-looking fat man who came to visit us that evening.

“Did you manage to see Kamel?” my mother asked him apprehensively.

He did not know where to look. He removed his glasses, took out a handkerchief and started wiping the lenses.

“I saw him, and I was present during the interrogation,” he said.

“How is he?” Aisha asked him.

“He’s all right, thank God.”

“I’ve heard,” she said tremulously, “that they torture them there.”

Gameel looked down and then went on in a low voice, “Unfortunately, there are signs of bruising on his body, and I have verified this during questioning.”

My mother mumbled a few words that I could not make out, and then Aisha shouted, “They’ll answer to God, those criminals!”

“Unfortunately,” Gameel continued, “torture is a matter of course with state security, but once I have shown the presiding officer evidence of bruising, the interrogators generally ease off.”

“And could you tell me,” Mitsy asked him sharply, “on what charge he is being held?”

The lawyer gave a wistful smile and said, “Kamel is accused of membership in a secret organization which aims to overthrow the government.”

Aisha beat her arm against her breast, shouting, “He’s done for! He’s done for!”

My mother grimaced and seemed to be expending a huge effort to keep her composure. “My son,” she enunciated carefully, “is an honorable man. He has never hurt a fly.”

Mitsy gave the lawyer a serious stare, looking for all the world completely English at that moment.

“Has Kamel confessed to membership in this organization?” she asked him.

“No.”

“Do you think his legal situation is bad?”

“Definitely. The accusation is serious, and he could get life. The person accused of heading the organization is Prince Shamel, the king’s cousin. The king even had his cousin arrested. That’s how grave the matter is.”

“But you said that Kamel hasn’t confessed?”

“Not so far.”

“Even if he were to confess, wouldn’t they have to take into consideration that it was extracted under duress?”

“Of course. But unfortunately, they have evidence against him. They can connect him to a paper shredder and books on political agitation, and I still don’t know whether his colleagues in the organization have confessed or not.”

We all sat there in silence, as if every last bit of energy had left us. Gameel tried to lighten the atmosphere a little by smiling and saying to my mother, “Please God, we’ll see him on Friday, and we’ll be able to see how he’s doing then.”

Although I was longing to see Kamel, I was afraid at the same time. I would not be able to bear seeing him in a prison uniform with bruises on his face. I could not sleep all Thursday night. I said the dawn prayers with my mother, and we started to get things ready for the visit — underwear, clothes, new pajamas, fruit and lots of food. Aisha had contributed the mulukhiya with rabbit that Kamel loved so much. Gameel and Mitsy joined us, and we took two taxis to the prison. We sat in the waiting room as Gameel went to the prison office. Then he came back for us.

I walked down the corridor trying not to faint. The frightening moment was getting closer. My brother Kamel. The best person I knew, the support of my life: now I was going to see him looking like a criminal behind bars. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I could hardly see.

Outside a door, the lawyer stopped and whispered to us all, “You need to control your emotions now. If you break down in front of Kamel, it will have a harmful psychological effect on him. You are his nearest and dearest and you need to keep his spirits up. Do your utmost to help him.”

I excused myself and went to the bathroom to rinse my face and then went back to the others, and we went in. In the large room an officer sat at a desk at the far end. I looked to the left and saw Kamel. He was pale, and his eyes were sunken. I could see blue bruises on his face. Mahmud shook his hand and then stood there saying nothing. My mother ran over to him, hugged him and burst out crying. Then Mitsy and Aisha and I shook his hand, and we all sat down in a circle with him.

The officer cleared his throat and announced pleasantly, “I wish I could leave you alone, but prison regulations do not allow that.”

My mother forced a smile and said, “It’ll all turn out all right, Kamel. Mr. Gameel has told us so. Please God, you’ll be out soon.”

“Uncle Ali,” added Aisha, “sends you his greetings and says keep your spirits up, lad!”

I just kept looking at my brother, trying not to cry.

“Kamel,” said Mitsy, “never forget that you are struggling to achieve your country’s liberation. We’re proud of you.”

Kamel was looking at us and smiling, but something in his smile made me want to cry, something oblivious, distracted, fragile. The visit lasted half an hour, during which we exchanged trivialities and spoke of nothing important. But our words were simply a cover for another silent and more honest exchange.