heart. He listened to the speaker attentively and enthusiastically until
the first pause. Then Fahmy shouted along with all his comrades at
the same time, "Independence!"
3 ys
Naguib Mahfou
He listened to the continuation of the speech with an interest enlivened
by the shouting. When the speaker reached a second stopping
point, Fahmy cried out with everyone else, "Down with the Protectorate!"
Then, his body rigid with emotion and his teeth clenched to
hold back the tears inspired by the agitation of his soul, he kept on
listening until the speaker reached his third stopping place. With all
the others, he shouted, "Long live Sa'd!" That was a new chant.
Everything seemed new that day, but this was a ravishing chant.
Deep inside him, his heart reverberated to it and kept repeating it
with its successive beats, as though echoing his tongue. But the cry
on his tongue was actually echoing his heart.
He remembered now that his heart had repeated this chant silently
all through the night prior to the uprising. He had spent that night
in grief and distress. His stifled emotions, love, enthusiasm, aspirations,
idealism, and dreams had been scattered in disarray until the
voice of Sa'd had rung out. They had been drawn to him like a pigeon
floating in the sk drawn back by its master's whistle.
Before they knew what was happening, Mr. Amos, the assistant
British iudicial counsel in the Ministry of Justice, was making his way
through their midst. They greeted him with a single chant: "Down
with the Protectorate!" He was gruff with them and not even civil,
advising them to return to their lessons and leave politics to their
fathers.
At that point one of them protested: "Our fathers have been imprisoned.
We won't study law in a land where the law is trampled
underfoot."
The cry from the depths of their hearts resounded like a peal of
thunder, and the man quickly withdrew. For a second time, Fahmy
wished he were the speaker. How many ideas were swarming
through his mind, but other students proclaimed them first. His enthusiasm
became even more intense. He was consoled by the fact that
what he expected to happen would more than compensate for anything
he had missed.
Matters progressed rapidly. Someone called for them to leave the
school. They went off in a demonstration, heading for the School of
Engineering, where the students joined them at once, and then on to
Agriculture, where the students rushed out chanting as though they
had been expecting them. They went to Medicine and Commerce. As
soon as they reached al-Sayyida Zaynab Square they merged with a
mass demonstration of citizens. Shouts were raised for Egypt, independence,
and Sa'd. With every step they took, they gained more
PALACE WALK 39
enthusiasm, confidence, and faith, because of the impulsive partici
pation
and spontaneous response of their fellow citizens. They en
countered
people whose souls were primed, reeling with anger that
found expression in their demonstration.
Fahmy's astonishment that the demonstration had occurred almost
overpowered his feelings about the demonstration itself. He won
dered,
"How did all this happen?" Only a few hours had passed since
morning, when he had been despondent and deiected. Now here he
was a little before noon taking part in a turbulent demonstration
where he discovered in every other heart an echo of his own, re
peating
his chant and imploring him not to hesitate but to persevere
to the end. How joyful he was and how enthusiastic His spirit
soared off into the heavens with boundless hope. It regretted the
despair that had overcome it and was ashamed of the suspicions it
had entertained about innocent people.
In al-Sayyida Zaynab Square he witnessed another of the novel
scenes of that amazing day. He was one of those who saw groups of
mounted policemen commanded by an English officer advancing on
them, trailing plumes of dust behind the horses. The earth shook with
their hoofbeats. He could well remember how he had stared at them
in dismay. He had never before found himself exposed to such unexpected
danger.
He looked around him at faces that glowed with enthusiasm and
anger. He sighed nervously, but kept on waving his fist and chanting.
The mounted policemen surrounded them. Of the formidable ocean
in which he was surging he could only observe a limited area and
even there everyone else was craning his head to see. Then they
heard that the police had arrested many students, those who had
confronted them defiantly or had been at the head of the demonstration.
For the third time that day he had an unfulfilled wish. He wished
he were one of those arrested, but he could not have extricated himself
from the band he was in without extraordinary effort.
That day had been relatively peaceful compared with the next.
Monday morning began with a general strike and a demonstration in
which all the schools participated, carrying their banners, together
with untold throngs of citizens. Egypt had come back to life. It was
a new country. Its citizens rushed to crowd into the streets to prepare
for battle with an anger that had been concealed for a long time.
Fahmy threw himself into the swarms of people with intoxicating
happiness and enthusiasm, like a displaced person rediscovering his
family after a long separation.
The demonstration, which was thronged by onlookers, passel by
the homes of influential politicians, voicing its protests in various
terms, until it reached Ministries Street. Then a violent disturbance
passed through the swarms of people and someone shouted, "The
English!" Bullets immediately started flying and drowned out the
sound of the protesters. The first fatalities occurred. Some people
continued on with insane zeal, while others seemed nailed to the
ground. Many separated off and sought shelter in homes and coffeehouses.
Fahmy was in this last category. He slipped into a doorway,
his heart beating wildly in alarm. He stopped thinking about anything
except his life. He stayed there for he knew not how long until silence
prevailed everywhere. Then he stuck out his head, followed by his
feet, and set off for home, incredulous that he had survived. He was
in a kind of daze when he reached his house. In his sorrowful solitude
he wished that he had been one of the departed or at least one of
.those who had held their ground. In a blaze of harsh self-criticism,
Fahmy promised his stem conscience to act more thoughtfully the
next time. Fortunately the arena for thoughtful action was vast and
near at hand.
Tuesday and Wednesday were like Sunday and Monday. They
were comparable in both their joys and sorrows. There were demonstrations
and chants, bullets and victims. Fahmy threw himself totally
into all of this. Driven by his enthusiasm, he reached far-flung
horizons of lofty sentiment. He was troubled that he was still alive
and regretted his escape. His zeal and hopes were doubled by the
spread of the spirit of anger and revolution. It was not long before
the tramway workers, the drivers and street sweepers went on strike.
The capital appeared sad, angry, desolate. There was good news that
attorneys and civil servants were about to strike. The heart of the
nation was throbbing. It was alive and in rebellion. The blood would
not have been shed in vain. The exiled leaders would not be forgotten.
A self-conscious awakening had rocked the Nile Valley.
The young man rolled over in bed. He turned his mind away from
the deluge of memories and began to follow the beats of the dough
once more. He looked around the room, slowly becoming visible as
the sun rose outside the closed shutters. His mother was making
bread! She would continue to knead the dough morning after morning.
God forbid that anything should distract her from concentrating
her attention on preparing the meals, washing the clothes, or cleaning
the furnishings. Great activities would not interfere with minor ones.
Society would always be flexible enough to embrace exalted and triv
PALACE WALK
ial matters and to welcome both equally. But not so fast.... Was a
mother not part of life? She had given birth to him, and sons fueled
the revolution. She fed him, and nourishment fueled the sons. In fact,
nothing about life was trivial. But would not some day come when a
great event would rock all the Egyptians, leaving none of the differ
ences
of opinion that had been present at the coffee hour five days
ago? How remote that day seemed Then a smile came to his lips
when this question leapt into his mind: What would his father do if
he learned about his continual struggle, day after day? What would
his tyrannical, despotic father do about it and his tender, affectionate
mother? He smiled anxiously, because he knew he would be exposed
to problems no less significant than if the military authority itself
should learn his secret.
He pulled back the covers and sat up in bed murmuring, "It's all
the same whether I live or die. Faith is stronger than death, and death
is nobler than ignominy. Let's enjoy the hope, compared to which
life seems unimportant. Welcome to this new morning of freedom.
May God carry out whatever He has decreed."
No one could claim any longer that the revolution had not changed
at least some aspect of his life. Even Kamai's freedom to go to school
and return by himself, which he had enjoyed for a long time, was
affected by a development he found obnoxiously burdensome, although
he could not prevent it. His mother had ordered Umm Hanafi
to follow him on his way to and from school. She was not to let him
out of her sight and to bring him home if they ran into a demonstration.
He would not have a chance to loiter or obey any frivolous
impulses.
The news of the demonstrations and disturbances made the mother's
head spin. Her heart trembled at the savage attacks on the students.
She spent gloomy days filled with alarm and panic, wishing
she could keep her two sons at home until matters returned to normal.
She was unable to achieve her goal, especially after Fahmy
promised he would definitely not participate in any strike. Her confidence
in his good sense had not been shaken. Her husband rejected
the idea of keeping Kamal home from school, because he knew the
school would prevent the younger pupils from participating in the
strike. Reluctantly the mother agreed that the brothers could go to
school, but she had stipulated Umm Hanafi's supervision for Kamal,
telling him, "If I were able to go out, I would follow you myself."
Kamal had objected as forcefully as he could, because he realized
intuitively that this supervisor, who would keep nothing about him
secret from his mother, would put a decisive end to all the mischief
and tricks he enjoyed in the street. That would destroy this brief,
happy time of his day as he went from one of his prisons to the
other: home and school. He was also intensely annoyed at walking
down the street accompanied by this woman whose excessive weight
and faltering step would certainly attract attention. He was forced to
submit to her supervision, since his father had ordered him to accept
her. The most he could do to comfort himself was to scold her whenever
she got too close to him, since he had decreed that she should
stay several meters behind him.
In this manner they made their way to Khalil Agha School on
PALACE WALK
Thursday morning, the fifth day of the demonstrations in Cairo.
When they reached the door of the school, Umm Hanafi approached
the gatekeeper and, acting according to her daily instructions received
at home, asked him, "Are the pupils in the school?"
The man answered her indifferently, "Some have gone in and others
have left. The headmaster is not interfering with anyone."
This answer was a bad surprise for Kamal. He was prepared to
hear the response he had come to expect since Monday--namely:
"The pupils are on strike." Then they would return home where he
would spend the whole day in freedom. That made him love the
revolution from afar. His soul urged him to flee to escape the consequences
of this new reply. He told the gatekeeper, "I'm one of
those who leave."
He walked away from the school with the woman behind him.
When she asked him why he had not gone in with the others who
were staying, he implored her repeatedly, for the first time in his life,
to deceive his mother by telling her that the pupils were on strike.
To strengthen his entreaty and gain her affection, he prayed for her
to have a long and happy life when they were passing by the mosque
of al-Husayn Umm Hanafi was unable to keep the truth, as she had
heard it, from his mother, who chided him for being lazy and ordered
the woman to take him back to school. They left the house again and
Kamal treated her to a fierce tongue-lashing and accused her of
treachery and betrayal.
In school, he found only boys his age, the youngsters. The others,
the overwhelming majority, were on strike. About a third of the pupils
were present in his class, which contained a higher percentage of
younger students than any other. The teacher ordered them to review
the previous lessons. Meanwhile he busied himself correcting their
exercises and ignored them as though they actually were on strike.
Kamal opened a book. He pretended to read but paid no attention to
the book. He did not like staying at school with nothing to do, when
he could have been with the strikers or at home enjoying the vacation
that these amazing days had unexpectedly granted him. He found
school oppressive in a way he had not before.
His imagination flew away to the strikers outside with astonishment
and curiosity. He often wondered which view of them was
accurate. Were they "daredevils" as his mother claimed, with no feeling
for themselves or their families, unnecessarily putting their lives
in jeopardy? Or were they "heroes" as Fahmy described them, sacrificing
their lives to struggle against God's enemy and their own?
He was often inclined to agree with his mother because of his resentment
toward the older pupils at his school who were among the
strikers. They had made the worst possible impression on him and
the other young pupils like him with the rough treatment and contempt
they meted out in the school courtyard, where they challenged
the younger boys with their enormous bodies and insolent mustaches.
Yet he could not totally accept this view, because Fahmy's opinion
always carried a lot of weight with him and was hard to ignore.
Kamal could not deny them the heroism Fahmy ascribed to them. He
even wished he could observe their bloody battles from a safe place.
Something extremely serious was no doubi underway, otherwise why
were the Egyptians striking and banding together to clash with the
soldiers?... And what soldiers? The English! The English... when
a mention of that name had once sufficed to clear the streets. What
had happened to the world and to people? This amazing struggle was
so overwhelming that its basic elements were engraved in the boy's
soul without his having made any conscious effort to remember them.
The terms "Sa'd Zaghlul," "the English," "the students," "the martyrs,"
"handbills," and "demonstrations" became active forces inspiring
him at the deepest levels, even if he was only a perplexed
bystander when it came to understanding what they stood for. His
bewilderment was doubled by the fact that the members of his family
reacted differently to the events and at times in contrary ways. While
Fahmy was outraged and attacked the English with lethal hatred,
yearning for Sa'd so much it brought tears to his eyes, Yasin discussed
the news with calm concern and quiet sorrow that did not
prevent him from continuing his normal routine of chatting, laughing,
and reciting poetry and stories followed by an evening on the town
that lasted until midnight. Kamal's mother kept praying that God
would bring peace and make life secure again by cleansing the hearts
of both the Egyptians and the English. Zaynab, his brother's wife,
was the most disconcerting of them all. She was frightened by the
course of events, and the only person she could find to vent her anger
on was Sa'd Zaghlul himself, whom she accused of having caused all
the evil. "If he had lived the way God's children should, meekly and
peacefully, no one would have harmed him in any manner and this
conflagration would not have broken out."
Thus the boy's enthusiasm was set on fire by the thought of the
struggle itself, and his sorrow overflowed at the thought of death in
the abstract, without his having any clear understanding of what was
PALACE WALK 56
going on around him, locally or nationally. He would have had a fine
opportunity to observe a demonstration at close range or to participate
in one, if only in the school courtyard, the day the pupils of
Khalil Agha School had been called to strike for the first time, had
not the headmaster, to Kamal's distress, immediately shut the
younger pupils up in their classrooms. He had lost that opportunity
and found himself kept indoors, although he could listen to the loud
chanting with a mixture of astonishment and secret delight, inspired
perhaps by the chaos affecting everything and mercilessly wreaking
havoc with the tedious daily routine. He had missed the chance then
to participate in a demonstration just as he had lost the opportunity
today to enjoy a holiday at home. He would remain confined to this
boring assembly, looking at a book with eyes that saw nothing, cautiously
and fearfully exchanging pinches with a friend across a book
bag until the end of the long day came.
Then, suddenly, something attracted his attention. It might have
been an unfamiliar voice at some distance or a ringing in his ears. He
looked around him to determine what he had heard. He found that
the pupils' heads were raised and that they were looking at each
other. Then everyone stared at the windows overlooking the street.
It was a reality, not something imaginary, that had attracted their
attention. Different voices were blended together into an enormous,
incomprehensible sound. Because of the distance, it seemed like the
roaring of waves far away. As it grew closer it could be termed a
din, or even an advancing din. There was a commotion in the classroom.
Pupils started whispering. Then a voice called out: "A demonstration!"
Kamal's
heart pounded. His eyes took on a gleam of joy mixed
with dismay. The din came closer and closer until the chanting could
be heard clearly, thundering and raging in all directions, surrounding
the school. His ears were bombarded by the words that had filled his
mind during the past days: "Sa'd," "independence," "protectorate."...
The
chanting came even nearer and got louder, until it filled the
school courtyard itself. The pupils were dumbfounded. They were
sure this deluge would flood them, but they welcomed it with a childish
delight that shunned any consideration of the consequences, because
of their zealous yearning for anarchy and liberation. Next they
heard footsteps coming toward them and noisy shouting. The door
swung wide open from the impact of a violent shove. Bands of stu
Naguib Mahfou
dents from the University and al-Azhar potred into the room like
water rushing through an opening in a dam. They were shouting,
"Strike! Strike!... No one can stay here."
In a matter of moments, Kamal found himself swept away by a
tumultuous wave pushing him forward so forcefully that resistance
was impossible. He was extremely upset. He moved along slowly
like a coffee bean revolving in the mouth of the grinder. He did not
know where to look. All he knew of the world were bodies crammed
together, not to mention the clamor assaulting his ears, until he discerned
from the appearance of the sky overhead that they had
reached the street. He was being squeezed ever more tightly till he
could scarcely breathe. He was so frightened he screamed a loud,
continuous, piercing wail. Before he knew what was happening, a
hand had grabbed his arm and yanked him forcibly, making a way
for him through the crowd until it pushed him up on the sidewalk
and against a wall. He started panting and searching around him for
a safe place. He discovered that the metal security door of Hamdan's
pastry shop had been pulled down until it was close to the ground.
He rushed over and got on his knees to crawl under it. When he
stood up inside he saw Uncle Hamdan, who knew him quite well,
two women, and a few young pupils. He rested his back against the
side of the counter with the trays on it while his chest rose and fell
repeatedly. He heard Uncle Hamdan say, "Students from al-Azhar
and the University, workers, citizens.., all the roads leading to alHusayn
are iammed with people. Before today I wouldn't have
thought the earth could support so many people."
One of the women said in astonishment, "How can they keep on
demonstrating after they've been fired on?"
The other woman commented sadly, "May our Lord provide guidance
... they're all good boys, alas."
Uncle Hamdan said, "We've never seen anything like this before.
May our Lord protect them."
The chanting burst out from the demonstrators' throats, convulsing
the atmosphere, at times so near it resounded in the shop and at other
times at a distance in a great, incomprehensible hullabaloo like the
roaring of the wind. It continued without interruption, its slow but
steady motion revealed by the differing degrees of intensity and loudness
between the waves of people as they approached and drew
away.
Whenever he thought it had ended, another wave came along. It
PALACE WALK
seemed it would never end. Kamal concentrated his whole being in
his ears to listen attentively, although he felt uneasy and anxious. As time passed without anything terrible happening, he was able to catch
his breath and regain his composure. Then he was finally able to
consider the situation as transitory. It would soon be over. He wondered
whether he should tell his mother what had happened to him
once he got home: "A demonstration without beginning or end burst
into our classrooms, and before I knew it, I was surrounded by the
raging current, which swept me out into the street. I shouted along
with everyone else, 'Long live Sa'd! Down with the Protectorate!
Long live independence[' I was carried from street to street until the
English attacked us and opened fire."
She would be so alarmed she would weep, hardly able to believe
he was still alive. She would recite many verses from the Qur'an as
she shuddered.
"A bullet went by my head. I can still hear its drone ringing in my
ear. People were bumping into each other like madmen. I would have
perished with the others if a man had not pulled me into a store."
His daydreams were cut short by loud, sporadic screams and footsteps
rushing past in confusion. His heart pounded, and he looked at
the faces surrounding him. He saw that they were staring at the door
with an expression suggesting they expected to be bit on the head.
Uncle Hamdan went to the door and leaned down to peer out the
gap at the bottom. Jumping back, he quickly lowered the door until
it was flush with the ground. He stammered in confusion, "The English!"
Many people were shouting outside, "The English[... The English!"
Others called out, "Stand firm... stand firm."
Someone else yelled, "We die, but the nation lives."
Then for the first time in his short life the boy heard shots fired
nearby. He recognized them instinctively and shook all over. When
the women let out a scream of terror, he burst into tears.
Uncle Hamdan was saying in a shaky voice, "We proclaim that
God is one... one."
Kamal felt afraid, and a deathly chill crept throughout his body
from his feet to his head. The shots kept on coming. Their ears were
assailed by a clatter of wheels and a neighing of horses. Voices and
movement were heard in extraordinarily rapid succession and then
they were joined by roars, screams, and moans. To those crouching
Naguib Mahfou.
behind the door, a fleeting moment of combat seemed an eternity
spent in the presence of death. Then a frightening silence prevailed,
like a swoon following an onslaught of pain.
Kamal asked in a hoarse and trembling voice, "Have they gone?"
Uncle Hamdan put his finger to his lips and murmured, "Hush."
Then he recited the Throne Verse from the Qur'an (2:255) about the
omnipotence of God.
Kamal recited another verse about God, to himself since he no
longer felt able to speak. "Say: He is God, one, only one." (Qur'an,
112:1). Perhaps this verse would drive away the English as effectively
as it drove away the iinn in the dark.
The door was not opened until the noon prayer, when the boy ran
out into the deserted street and dashed off like the wind. Passing by
the steps leading down to Ahmad Abduh's coffee shop, he noticed a
person coming up whom he recognized as his brother Fahmy. He
rushed to him like a drowning man grabbing at a life preserver. As
Kamal grasped his arm, the young man turned in alarm. When he
recognized his little brother he shouted at him, "Kamal?... Where
were you during the strike?"
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