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Authors: Saeida Rouass
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Christians had formed a protective chain around them so they could have their moment with God. Religious differences becoming irrelevant when we are all fighting the same devil.
To my surprise my mother was inconsolable. I know she saw the beauty, I know she saw the courage, but she also saw a city she didn’t recognise. She could still not see a way out. None of us could.
She turned to my father, after hearing about the camels, rocks, death and defiance. ‘Maybe we are paying for the sins of our privilege,’ she said.
My father looked at her. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Fatima,’ he said. ‘And what about the homeless and beggars? What about the million people living in a grave yard? What privilege are they paying for? What sins have they not already paid for?’
XIV
Sunday is for martyrs
Sunday 6th February
I fell into a depression. My mother’s words stayed with me. She wasn’t referring to the homeless and the beggars. I understood that. She was referring to us. She was asking if our shame was the price we would pay for choosing to protect our privilege. I knew the answer was yes. I knew our choice to protect ourselves, our home, our community would stay after the protesters left, and so did she. We, as a family, were not at Tahrir Square when the protesters chanted ‘We are one’.
We were not there when they drove off Mubarak supporters, when they pulled the injured away and helped them the best they could. We stayed away. Why? Were we supporters of Mubarak? No!
The idea of staying away seemed absurd to me now. I racked my brain to understand why we didn’t go and nota single argument stood up to the counter-arguments I had made. I felt like we were the last people in a village to realise it was time to relocate, that the water supply was contaminated and if we didn’t find another spot to build our home we would be left behind with the mosquitoes and rats. The whole country was relocating, finding its way through an unknown terrain to a new home. Yet we held on tight to our apathy, our hope, like a group of climbers hanging onto the bottom of a rope, a long drop beneath them. Perhaps it would take the person at the other end letting go of the rope, telling us to look up, not down.
The depression was mixed with frustration. Frustration at my father, my mother, my brother for his persistent silence, and Mustafa in his pathetic corner under the stairs. But I knew that wasn’t fair, I knew I was no better or worse than them.
What was stopping me? A fear of defying my father? I had defied him before for less worthy gains.
I stayed in bed most of that Sunday refusing to come out of my room. I didn’t want to face them, didn’t want to walk with my father on his patrol, didn’t want to share food. No one pushed me to come out. They just left me there, glad my reaction to a realisation they may have already come to was without fuss.
A feeling descended on the house, one of complicity. We all seemed to agree that fuss was unwanted, that we would carry the guilt if we had to, together carry the shame through the years.
At some point my brother joined me in my room. I looked at him and wondered where he had been all this time, what he had been thinking. I thought of asking him where he had gone on that first day, how far? I didn’t though. I didn’t want to pollute what he had done with my own aspirations, to lighten my load by taking away from his courage. And he appreciated that, appreciated not being asked. If the time was ever right he would tell me or not.
‘They are calling today Sunday of Martyrs.’
‘Are they?’ I asked indifferently. Who were ‘they’? Theprotesters or another group altogether, the group who stayed away.
‘They are remembering the dead today.’
‘Someone has to.’
‘The Muslims are protecting the Christians while they say mass now,’ he continued.
‘That’s nice of them,’ I said, hoping he would get the hint and leave me alone.
‘The death toll is
To my surprise my mother was inconsolable. I know she saw the beauty, I know she saw the courage, but she also saw a city she didn’t recognise. She could still not see a way out. None of us could.
She turned to my father, after hearing about the camels, rocks, death and defiance. ‘Maybe we are paying for the sins of our privilege,’ she said.
My father looked at her. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Fatima,’ he said. ‘And what about the homeless and beggars? What about the million people living in a grave yard? What privilege are they paying for? What sins have they not already paid for?’
XIV
Sunday is for martyrs
Sunday 6th February
I fell into a depression. My mother’s words stayed with me. She wasn’t referring to the homeless and the beggars. I understood that. She was referring to us. She was asking if our shame was the price we would pay for choosing to protect our privilege. I knew the answer was yes. I knew our choice to protect ourselves, our home, our community would stay after the protesters left, and so did she. We, as a family, were not at Tahrir Square when the protesters chanted ‘We are one’.
We were not there when they drove off Mubarak supporters, when they pulled the injured away and helped them the best they could. We stayed away. Why? Were we supporters of Mubarak? No!
The idea of staying away seemed absurd to me now. I racked my brain to understand why we didn’t go and nota single argument stood up to the counter-arguments I had made. I felt like we were the last people in a village to realise it was time to relocate, that the water supply was contaminated and if we didn’t find another spot to build our home we would be left behind with the mosquitoes and rats. The whole country was relocating, finding its way through an unknown terrain to a new home. Yet we held on tight to our apathy, our hope, like a group of climbers hanging onto the bottom of a rope, a long drop beneath them. Perhaps it would take the person at the other end letting go of the rope, telling us to look up, not down.
The depression was mixed with frustration. Frustration at my father, my mother, my brother for his persistent silence, and Mustafa in his pathetic corner under the stairs. But I knew that wasn’t fair, I knew I was no better or worse than them.
What was stopping me? A fear of defying my father? I had defied him before for less worthy gains.
I stayed in bed most of that Sunday refusing to come out of my room. I didn’t want to face them, didn’t want to walk with my father on his patrol, didn’t want to share food. No one pushed me to come out. They just left me there, glad my reaction to a realisation they may have already come to was without fuss.
A feeling descended on the house, one of complicity. We all seemed to agree that fuss was unwanted, that we would carry the guilt if we had to, together carry the shame through the years.
At some point my brother joined me in my room. I looked at him and wondered where he had been all this time, what he had been thinking. I thought of asking him where he had gone on that first day, how far? I didn’t though. I didn’t want to pollute what he had done with my own aspirations, to lighten my load by taking away from his courage. And he appreciated that, appreciated not being asked. If the time was ever right he would tell me or not.
‘They are calling today Sunday of Martyrs.’
‘Are they?’ I asked indifferently. Who were ‘they’? Theprotesters or another group altogether, the group who stayed away.
‘They are remembering the dead today.’
‘Someone has to.’
‘The Muslims are protecting the Christians while they say mass now,’ he continued.
‘That’s nice of them,’ I said, hoping he would get the hint and leave me alone.
‘The death toll is
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