Rebels by Accident (11 page)

“You're treating me just like my parents do.” I stand, snagging the back of my nightshirt on the cracked plastic of the chair back. “Please don't.”

Sittu looks up at me, and instead of the tough-ass grandmother I'm used to seeing, she looks fragile, breakable.

“It's too much right now.” She looks away.

“Please, Sittu. Talk to me.”

She sighs. “He was interrogated.”

“You mean, like, he was tortured?” I sit back down, not sure I want to hear any more but desperate to understand this piece of my father's life that I've never heard spoken about before.

“The protest, like the others, was peaceful. Students were chanting, holding signs on the campus. I believe they were protesting against the government for arresting a writer.”

“Like the bloggers who were arrested?”

“Yes, except writers wrote for printed newspapers at that time.” Sittu clears her throat and shifts in her seat. “Your father was one of many students arrested that day, and all of them were beaten very badly.”

“Baba's scar,” I say. “The one over his right eye. He always says he doesn't remember how he got it.”

“Yes, the scar comes from that time, but not from a police baton. Your father would never tell me what happened in any detail, just that it was a…burn.”

We sit without talking for what feels like longer than the flight to Egypt. I break the silence first. “Sittu?”

“Yes,” she says, still not meeting my gaze.

“Is that why Baba wanted to leave Egypt?”

“My son,” Sittu says, turning to me, “never wanted to leave. It was his father and I who forced him to go. We were too afraid of what might happen if he stayed. But your father didn't want to go. I don't think he's ever forgiven his father—or me.” Sittu wipes her eyes with the back of her shawl. I don't see tears in her eyes, but it looks like she's been crying for years.

“I didn't mean to upset—”

“Mariam, my love, there are many things that upset me right now, but you,
habibti
, are not one of them.”

I think about what I said to Baba, calling Sittu a horrible woman, and now I want to beg her to forgive me.

“It was a peaceful demonstration—no violence. Then the police came and beat the students and used tear gas on them.”

“You did the right thing,” I say quietly. “You wanted him to live in a country where people don't risk going to prison for speaking out.”

“Oh, Mariam. To me, they teach history in America the same way they teach it here—with many distortions.”

“What do you mean?”

“You're a smart girl. You will understand someday.”

“Sittu, what's happening tomorrow? Please tell me.”

“Tomorrow is a national holiday for the police.” She shakes her head. “There is a call for people to gather and protest the police's abuse and oppression we experience every day in this country, as well as all the other things we have talked about tonight.
Habibti
, this is a very hard time for Egypt right now, and, well…Egypt needs to take care of Egypt.”

“Is that what you wrote about online?”

“I blog a little.” She half smiles.

“I don't even have a Facebook page.”

“Your parents.”

I nod.

“Well, maybe when you're sixteen. Isn't that the day after tomorrow?” she asks, looking happier now.

“Do you want to go to the protest tomorrow?” I ask. Now I'm the one changing the subject.

“
Habibti
, this is for the youth of Egypt.”

“Should Deanna and I go?”

“No!” Sittu looks upset, but this time I don't take it personally. I know this isn't about me. She clears her throat. “Miss Deanna seems to be having a good time in Cairo.”

“A great time,” I say, realizing this is the first time Sittu and I have been alone since Deanna and I arrived.

“Love makes everything great—even the mediocre.”

“Hassan seems to like Deanna a lot too.”

Below us, brakes screech. Then there's a large bang. I jump to my feet to peer over the balcony's railing.

Right below us, three cars have crashed into one another in an exit from the traffic circle.

“Sittu! Should we call someone?”

“Soon there will be more someones to help than will be helpful. Just sit and watch.”

Sure enough, Sittu is right. The drivers get out, inspecting the damage to their cars, but so do all the drivers and passengers of all the other cars that are stopped in the traffic circle because of the accident.

“Back home, they call that
rubbernecking
. But people don't get out of their cars or anything. They just slow down to look. My mom calls them
looky-loos
.”

“Looky-loos,” Sittu says. “I like that. There are those who live life and those who stand by and comment on it. Here in Misr, it's not enough to just look. Everyone needs to give advices.”

“Advice,” I correct.

“No, I meant advices,” she says. “You see, in Misr everyone gives advice in the plural. Everyone knows how to best live everyone else's lives, you know? The problem is there aren't many people who have any idea how to best live their own life. But who knows? Maybe tomorrow there will be less advices and more action.”

“Advices,” I say. “I like that.”

“Do you mind some more advices from your old Sittu?”

“Okay,” I say, now wanting to hear everything she has to say.

“First loves are a very powerful and all-consuming phenomenon. It is stranger than politics. Deanna will seem for a while like she's from another planet. Just know it's not space invaders or you; it's just crazy love.”

“Like crazy drivers?”

“Exactly. You think you know where you're going, and you're happy getting there until, one day, you realize you haven't any idea where you are or how you got there.”

“I understand that,” I say.

“Oh?” Sittu says, arching her eyebrows. “Why is this?”

“No reason.” Could I sound any less convincing?

“I ‘fessed up,' as they say in your country, about all that happened with my son and me. Now it's your turn. My lips are sealed to others. You can trust me.”

I believe her.

“Well, Hassan…”

“You like Hassan.”

I nod.

“Maybe love?” she asks.

“I don't know,” I say.

“Do you feel crazy?”

Looking down at the street and the people who just had the accident and everyone who gathered around them sharing advices, I realize that's exactly how I feel. “Like crazy traffic.”

“But you are willing to step aside for your friend,” Sittu says.

“It's clear he likes her, and she's so into him.”

“Remember what I said about giving away too much?”

“That I'll end up with a hole in my heart.”

“You are a good friend, Mariam, and maybe your friendship with Deanna is strong enough to fill that hole.” Sittu pauses before she says, “Life doesn't always give us what we want.”

I nod. I know this very well.

“But sometimes, Mariam,” Sittu says, grabbing my hand, “life gives us exactly what we need, though we don't always know we need it until we get it.”

“I'm feeling kind of tired now.”

But Sittu keeps talking. “Sometimes we expect more from those who are closest to our heart. They reflect back so much of ourselves. Of course, this isn't always the best. But like I said, in Misr, we all know how to best live your life, yet we are never too sure how to live our own. You understand me,
habibti
?”

I nod, but I don't know what it is I really understand—except that just now I could hear her love when she called me
habibti
.

“See,” she says, pointing at the traffic, “everybody's back in their cars and traffic is moving again. Sooner or later, we always get back to it.

“And, Mariam, if you'd just gone a few more feet in the pyramid today, it would have gotten so much easier. It's still hot, but the ceiling is almost forty feet high, and there's much more light. Sometimes if you force yourself to keep going, you find the most amazing surprises.” She shrugs. “But we all are ready in our own time.”

She knew all along. Of course she did.

As I kiss Sittu good night, she whispers one last piece of advice in my ear: “Roll Deanna on her side. She'll snore less.”

Back in my room, I move Deanna so she is facing me, and the snoring stops. I stare at her and wonder if Sittu is right.
Will
love
make
her
act
crazy?

“Mar, wake up!” Deanna screeches from in front of the computer.

With one eye open and the other half-shut, I grumble, “Let me sleep.”

“Do you hear that singing? All the voices echoing each other?”

“It's the
adhan
—the call to prayer.” I rub my eyes. “There are a lot of mosques nearby,” I say, realizing I do remember some things from when I was here as a kid.

“I love this place,” Deanna says. “To wake up to a symphony every morning…” She turns to the computer.

“I'm going back to sleep,” I mumble, rolling away from her.

“You have to see this,” Deanna says.

I ignore her. She keeps talking.

“I checked out Hassan's Facebook page. I wanted to see if he, you know, mentioned anything about yesterday or me in his update.”

“And?” I try to sound disinterested, but I jump out of bed so fast I bang my knee into the edge of the nightstand, knocking the book with the pseudo-Arab lover boy on the cover onto the floor.

“Ow!” I rub my knee as I wobble over to Deanna.

“You okay? That had to hurt.”

“So did he say anything?” I ask, more focused on the computer screen than on the pain in my leg.

“I don't know. His update is in Arabic. But look at this page—there's this group with eighty thousand fans. It's huge. They're calling for today to be the Day of Revolt. It's officially some national holiday for the police, who they say torture people and stuff.”

“Yeah, I know about it.” I turn away, catching my reflection in Sittu's true mirror, still not seeing how I look any different than I do in any other mirror.

“You knew about the protest, and you're just telling me now?”

“Sittu just mentioned it last night.”

“When? You were asleep when I came to bed.”

“Well, someone woke me up with her snoring—” I say, but Deanna interrupts me.

“What is this? Wait until Deanna goes to sleep, then talk about all the juicy stuff?”

Ignoring her, I put my suitcase on the bed. I still haven't unpacked.

“We're going, right?” Deanna comes to sit at the edge of my bed, watching me pull out everything while trying to find a T-shirt I don't completely hate.

“Where are my jeans?” I ask, tossing a pair of shorts in the air.

“Right here.” Deanna holds up the wrong pair of jeans.

“Not those. The jeans that don't make my butt look fat.”

“Your butt never looks fat,” Deanna says, shaking her head at me. “Just wear these.”

“Don't tell me I forgot to pack them,” I whine.

“Mar, stop freaking out. Who cares about your butt right now? People aren't going to be worrying about what your butt looks like when we're protesting for freedom.”

“Protest?” I grab the jeans from her, then drop them on the floor. “That's the last place I want to be today. Do you even know why they're protesting?”

“Corruption, soaring food prices, half the population lives below the poverty line, making less than two dollars a day…”

Okay, so she knows. “People can get hurt,” I say, pulling out more T-shirts. I hate them all.

“I went to tons of demonstrations with my mom when we lived in San Francisco, for gay marriage, women's right to choose, education, equal pay for equal work. They were always completely safe. No one ever got hurt. And when people got arrested, they were let out right away.”

“Deanna, that was San Francisco. This is Egypt.” I think about mentioning what Sittu said about what happened to my dad but decide against it out of respect for Baba. “Hassan's going, isn't he?”

“I don't know. Look, you have to see this video link.” Deanna goes back to the computer. “Come here and look at this.”

I look over her shoulder. “Hassan has 1,122 friends. Popular guy. Wow, and he's friends with some very pretty girls.”

“Just look at this.” Deanna clicks the video, and a girl in a headscarf who looks younger than us starts talking in Arabic.

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Asmaa Mahfouz.”

“What is she saying?”

“How do I know? I didn't learn that much Arabic from your dad. But it's not what she's saying; it's how she's saying it. Look at the expression on her face. She's talking about some serious shit. The video's from January eighteenth, but I think it has something to do with today's protest. And this group, the April Sixth Youth Movement—that's the name of one of the groups calling for action today—they have a huge number of fans.”

“‘We are all Khaled Said.'” I read from the list of Hassan's favorites.

“That's another group. It's named after this young guy the police beat to death last year.”

“That's horrible.” And I think about how this could have happened to Baba.

“See why it's so important we go and show our support?”

“It's too dangerous.”

“If it weren't for our country's money, this Mubarak jerk wouldn't be able to keep hurting people.”

“You can't blame America for what's happening here,” I say, but I think about what Sittu said last night, and I know Deanna has a point. But if I tell her that, she'll keep pushing that we go. “You only want to go because you think Hassan will be there,” I snap.

“You know that's bull,” she says, and I don't think I've ever heard her so angry with me before. Maybe I'm not being fair. Deanna really does care about saving the world. She's always getting me to sign some petition to save the whales, the air, kids in Africa. But those petitions are different. Here, speaking out against the mainstream, against politics is dangerous, and it's not our fight.

“What's your problem with Hassan?” she asks.

“I don't have a problem.” I walk back over to my suitcase and busy myself with finding a bra.

“Wait a minute.” She gets up from her chair and pulls the bra from my hand. “Look at me.”

“Yes?” I turn my face to her but avoid making eye contact. She pulls my chin to try to make me look at her. “I knew it. You were lying yesterday. You do like Hassan.”

“Give me a break.” I turn to the mirror and hold a blue T-shirt against my chest, pretending I'm really interested in how it looks on me.

“When are you going to be straight with me?”

“A bunch of students are going to demonstrate,” I say. “Teenagers. Like us. They're not revolting or overthrowing the government. It's no big deal.”

“Well, who do you think starts revolutions? Did you ever hear of Tiananmen Square?”

“Of course I have. And do you know how many people were killed there?”

“Okay, so maybe that's not a great example, but my point is, young people can change the world. Look at what young people did in our country. They stopped the war—”

“We went to war with Iraq twice, and we're still there,” I say, surprising myself. I do know some things about politics.

“I'm talking about the sixties—how young people protested in Washington and helped stop the Vietnam War.”

“Fine, Deanna. When we're back home, if you want me to go to some rally, I will, but not here. This isn't about us. It's not our fight. Can I please just get dressed now?” I grab my bra out of her hand.

Deanna returns to the computer but keeps on lecturing me: “How can you say that? Fighting for people's rights and freedom isn't about us? You saw them take away that man at the airport. You're the one who wanted me to call my mother to help him, and now you're saying it's none of our business. And you're Egyptian!”

“I'm American. Why can't you understand that? You calling me Egyptian is no better than what Karen and Beth do to me, making me feel like I don't belong and I'm some foreigner.”

“That's not what I mean, and you know it,” she says. Now she's really pissed off.

“Deanna?”

She doesn't even answer me.

“I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have said that about Karen…”

“Forget it,” she says, but I'm not convinced she means it.

“Even if I wanted to go, Sittu won't let us.”

“What?” Deanna swings around. “After all she told us about the long tradition of strong women you come from?”

There's a knock on the door. “May I come in?” Sittu asks.

Mom never knocks. Baba only began to knock when I started wearing bras.

“Of course,” Deanna says.

“You are up early. It's not even light yet,” Sittu says. She's wearing a white scarf loosely over her head.

“Praying?” Deanna asks.

“Soon,” she says. “I just finished my ablutions.”

“What?” Deanna asks.

“It's washing up before you pray so you're clean when you stand before God,” I tell her.

Deanna looks at me like she can't decide if she's impressed or confused that I know this.

Sittu turns to me. “You pray?”

“I used to, with Mom. It's been a while.”

“Your mother doesn't pray anymore?”

“She does—”

“But you don't pray with her?”

I shake my head.

“Well, it's good your mother doesn't force you to pray.”

“My mother's not very religious,” Deanna says. “We don't pray, but I'd like to learn how you do it. I've watched on the news when all the Muslims pray together at Mecca. It looks so beautiful.”

“You are welcome to join me anytime,” Sittu says.

“
Shukran
,” Deanna says.

“
Afwan
.” Sittu smiles. “After we pray, we can take some breakfast and then talk about what we might do today.”

“We were just talking about that. Right, Mar?”

I don't say a word, and I hope Deanna doesn't mention the demonstration.

“I made a list of all the places I wanted to see. Mar, would you get my notebook for me?” She turns and points to the nightstand. I pick up her notebook and hand it to her, wondering what she's up to. “Let's see, what did I write down? Go to the pyramids. We've already done that.” She flips through pages. “There's really nothing else.” This is such a lie. Deanna has pages filled with places she wants to see.

“I guess I have nothing on my agenda for today. Mar, you were talking about going to Tahrir Square, weren't you?” Her eyes are begging me to back her up. I really do want to. Deanna has always been there for me, but I can't ask Sittu to take us to this protest, not after all she and I talked about, not when I know how she suffered over what happened to Baba.

“The mall,” I say. “Is there one nearby?”

“The mall?” I can hear Deanna straining to keep her cool.

“Of course,” Sittu says. “It may not be fancy-schmancy.” I try not to laugh at the way Sittu says
schmancy
. It sounds like she's heard the word in a movie and isn't sure if she's using it correctly. “It's no Mall of America, but they do have an ice-skating rink.”

“In Egypt?” Deanna and I ask at the same time.

“If Jamaicans can compete on a bobsled in the Olympics, Egyptians can ice-skate at the mall. I'll leave you girls to get some more rest. It's still very early, and the stores won't open for a while.” Sittu heads toward the door.

Deanna calls to her, “Sittu, can you tell me what this girl is saying?” Deanna hits the video link on Hassan's page.

Sittu watches for less than a minute, then reaches over Deanna to pause the video. “Her name is Asmaa Mahfouz.”

“That much I know,” Deanna says.

“You've heard of her?” Sittu looks surprised, but in a good way.

“It says her name right there in the clip.” Deanna points to the screen. “What is she saying?” She keeps her eyes on the frozen image of Asmaa.

Sittu takes in a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “She's talking about the people who set themselves on fire.”

“On fire? Are they crazy?” I say.

“That's what the government would want you to believe, but no. They're not crazy. Some would say heroic, and others say desperate. One man couldn't feed his daughter. Asmaa made this video on the day one of these men burned to death. She called for people to join her at Tahrir Square. That was on January eighteenth. It's hard to believe that was only a week ago.”

“Why meet there?” Deanna asks.

“The Parliament buildings are there, and other government buildings. She was very upset when people started posting that this man had committed a sin for killing himself when she believed he was doing this for Egypt, like people in Tunisia had done. She asked people to join her in protest against what our government is doing—for people to stand up for their rights. She told people who worried she would set herself on fire that they needed to meet her there and save her from this. She is a very smart girl.

“‘I, a girl, am going down to Tahrir Square, and I will stand alone.'” Sittu sounds like she's reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. “‘And I'll hold up a banner. Perhaps people will show some honor…'”

Sittu stops. She looks over at me, and then she looks down at Deanna. “Yes, she wanted people to show some honor and join her. I must have watched that video a thousand times.”

“Did they?”

“Three people. And security forces and police stopped them, pushing them into a building. In this video”—Sittu points to another link on the screen—“she talks about what happened and asks people to join her for another demonstration, a demonstration of peace, on January twenty-fifth.”

“Today,” Deanna says.

“Yes, today.”

Sittu's iPhone beeps. She pulls it from her housecoat pocket and starts to type.

“You're texting?” I ask.

“Twitting,” Sittu says.

“Tweeting.” I smile.

“About the protest?” Deanna asks. “We should all go, right?”