Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

I was almost provoked into giving an answer, but I said nothing. Another student grabbed me by the arm, and I went along with him, telling myself that I would stay for a while and then sneak off. When we reached the courtyard in front of the auditorium door, standing there was Hasan Mu’min, with his svelte body, his handsome face and his large, dreamy eyes, but at that moment he looked like a different person. He managed to captivate the students completely. He started by discussing the political situation and explaining how the king was colluding with the English. Then he turned to the occupation. His voice echoed through the hall: “Students! Generally, we associate rape with physical violence. That is wrong. Rape in essence is the violation of our will. The British occupation means to subdue Egypt, and the English want to break our will. The occupation is rape. Egypt is being raped on a daily basis. Does it bother you to see your country being violated?”

A murmur arose from the students and then shouts of “Long live Egypt! Long live Egypt! We’ll free Egypt with our blood!” The strange thing was that I found myself gradually joining in with them, shyly at first and then full-throatedly. I was swept along in a spiritual and mysterious way. I became one with the crowd and forgot that I had been planning to slink out.

After a few moments, Hasan Mu’min made a gesture with his hand, and the clamor gradually died down. He then raised his voice anew: “You, Egyptians! University students! There is no point in negotiating. Britain will not leave Egypt over a few words. Britain only understands the language of force. They occupied our country by force, and only force will make them leave. You, sons of Egypt! You are the country’s greatest hope, and all eyes are upon you. This is your day. The English soldiers are raping your mothers and sisters, and what are you doing about it?”

Pandemonium broke out. The students surged toward Hasan Mu’min and lifted him above their heads. One voice started calling out, “Egypt, we’ll save you!” until the chant was picked up by everyone. I saw some students so moved that they were crying like children. The university guards had closed the main gates from outside so that the demonstration could not spill out onto the street, but the crowd pressed against them until they swung open. I walked along in the demonstration, shouting the slogans enthusiastically. As we approached the overpass, we found the military police waiting for us. They charged at us in waves and beat us with sticks, blows raining down on our heads and bodies haphazardly. People were screaming, and some were bloodied. The secret police surrounded the square to arrest us as we fled. I saw the danger and concentrated on finding an escape route. I darted this way and that until I got to an alley I knew next to the College of Engineering and ran as fast as I could down the small streets by the zoo.

By some miracle, I made it home without being stopped. That night I did not do any studying. I sat smoking and reviewing the day’s events in my mind, becoming increasingly emotional. The comparison of the occupation to rape had filled me with anger. I opened the window and looked outside. An English military patrol was heading down al-Sadd Street toward the square. I stood there watching them, becoming ever more incensed. Those pale-faced Englishmen with their blue eyes and white skin had come to rape our country. I imagined an Englishman trying to violate my sister, Saleha, and could hardly contain myself. I slept fitfully that night and woke up still overwrought. I got dressed quickly and returned to the university to look for Hasan Mu’min, finding him in the cafeteria with some students, going over some papers. He greeted me as calmly as if he had been expecting me. When I whispered that I would like to see him privately, he got up immediately. I had prepared what I wanted to say, but the words just disappeared from my mind. I stood mutely in front of him as he looked at me with a friendly smile. Then I blurted out, “I want to do something for Egypt.”

My voice was emotional and shaky, and I shuddered as I pronounced our country’s name. Hasan Mu’mim was a true leader. He said nothing but nodded as if he completely understood. After asking me a few questions about my group of friends and where I lived, he invited me to a meeting of the Wafd committee at five o’clock that day in the garden of the College of Agriculture. The committee was made up of students from various colleges. At the meeting, I was introduced and immediately made a committee member.

When the meeting was over, Hasan pulled me aside and said, “Welcome, Kamel. I want to reassure you that there are many people who love Egypt. We have a broad front made up of nationalists of all political hues. We are everywhere, and by the will of God, we will be victorious.”

Hasan took to charging me with various duties, all of which I carried out to the best of my ability. I translated some articles from the English press to be published in the Wafd’s magazine, which was distributed for free at the university. Then I helped him to set up a Wafd marquee in Sayyida Zeinab. Day by day, my duties increased, and three months after I had joined the committee, Hasan Mu’min surprised me by calling for an early morning meeting — which was highly unusual. I found him, on his own, waiting for me in the garden of the College of Agriculture. He was holding a black briefcase and smoking voraciously, lighting each new cigarette with the butt of the last. He appeared nervous and agitated, pallid and with bags under his bloodshot eyes. He looked around and then whispered under his breath, “In a few days, the British foreign secretary is coming to Egypt. We have prepared a pamphlet protesting his visit and listing the crimes perpetrated by the occupation.”

I looked at him in silence, and he put a hand on my shoulder.

“I want you to distribute this pamphlet in Sayyida Zeinab.”

I did not answer. Things were happening too quickly. I said nothing and just looked at the grass under my feet. I could hear the shouts of the students playing football near us and became aware of Hasan whispering to me again.

“In all good faith, I have to tell you from the outset that what you are about to undertake is considered a crime under the law and punishable. If the authorities connect you with the pamphlet, they will arrest you, put you on trial, and you could spend years in prison.”

Alarming thoughts rushed through my mind. I could see myself in prison, my broken-hearted mother in tears and my sad father looking at me, crestfallen.

Hasan continued, “Kamel, you are a nationalist and a brave man, but I would beg you not to rush this decision. I’ll give you some time to think the matter over. If you decide to refuse, I will understand.”

Deep silence hung between us. I calmly held out my hand to take the briefcase. He tried to say something, but I took the briefcase firmly from his hand.

People in al-Sadd al-Gawany Street consider it their moral and religious duty to settle quarrels between married couples. The moment a husband and wife on the street start arguing, be it day or night, their neighbors rush over, listen carefully to the facts from both sides and try to suggest a solution based on the Quran and the traditions of the Prophet, not leaving the couple alone until the storm has died down. There was one exception to this rule: the arguments between the grocer Ali Hamama and his wife, Aisha. No one ever tried to keep them apart during a quarrel. Perhaps that was because, in spite of the ferocity of their arguments, they never resorted to physical violence or attempted to kill each other or commit suicide as other couples did. In fact, their arguments had a somewhat festive and entertaining character, with Ali Hamama and his wife exchanging hilariously filthy curses. As far as the people who lived in the street were concerned, Uncle Ali Hamama and his wife, Aisha, were not quite based in reality. They generally behaved like ordinary people, but they had this other side to them that was close to the rough-and-tumble of street puppet theater.