Morning and Evening Talk

Alif

Ahmad Muhammad Ibrahim

THE SKY WAS A CLEAR BLUE, the shadows of walnut trees slumbered on the ground, and the surface of the old square shone in the sunlight and clamored with endless noise from the surrounding alleys. Bare feet, ornamental slippers, pantofles, and the hooves of horses, donkeys, and mules trampled over Bayt al-Qadi Square, where the new police station met the old courthouse. Ahmad emerged into this vast playground and quickly forgot the house he came from, his parents’ house in Watawit. He was four years old when he was brought to his maternal grandfather’s house on Bayt al-Qadi Square to relieve the loneliness of his uncle Qasim, who was a year and a half older than him. With the other sons and daughters married, the house was empty; no one was left except the father, Amr Effendi, the mother, Radia, and their youngest child, Qasim. Qasim only knew his sisters, Sadriya, Matariya, Samira, and Habiba, and brothers, Amer and Hamid, as fleeting guests of his parents and would visit them in the same manner he would visit the branches of the family living on Khayrat Square and in Suq al-Zalat and East Abbasiya. At his sister Matariya’s house in Watawit he liked her son Ahmad best. Ahmad had an older brother called Shazli and a baby sister, Amana, but Ahmad was by far his favorite. Matariya loved Qasim like a son so let Ahmad go and live with his grandparents and relieve Qasim’s loneliness in the big empty house. Muhammad Effendi Ibrahim, Ahmad’s father, did not like the idea and nor did his mother, Aunt Matariya, but they let him go, determined to reclaim him the moment he was old enough to attend Qur’an school. Qasim knew nothing of their hidden plan and delighted in the company with unadulterated happiness.

Ahmad was a paragon of beauty. He had a rosy complexion, blue eyes, soft hair, and a winning personality. He would follow his uncle about the square like a shadow. The two of them watched the snake charmers, watering carts, and policemen filing by. They met Amm Karim the ice-cream seller together and observed funeral processions with a sense of dread. Women from the neighborhood would gaze at Ahmad as they passed.

“Who’s this handsome lad?” one would ask.

“Ahmad, Aunt Matariya’s son,” Qasim would reply proudly.

“The handsome son of a beautiful lady,” she would say and go on her way.

“Don’t fill Ahmad’s head with tales of ifrit,” Muhammad Effendi Ibrahim used to chide Qasim’s mother, Radia. She regarded him with contempt and replied, “What an ignorant teacher you are!” The man laughed, revealing his overlapping front teeth, and continued smoking his pipe. This was because it was usually Radia who put the two boys to bed. Elation would fill their hearts as they listened to her fairy tales before going to sleep, as the miracles of saints and the mischief of ifrit flooded their imaginations and reality submerged in a world of dreams, marvels, and divine signs. In their spare time she took them around different houses and the tombs of the saints and the Prophet’s family. The fun and entertainment continued until one day Qasim was taken off to begin a new life at Qur’an school and Ahmad was denied his friendship for two-thirds of the day. The Qur’an school was situated a few steps from the house in a recess in the Kababgi Building, but it was surrounded by a fence of strict tradition that turned it into a prison where divine principles were learned under threat of the cane. It was no place for entreaties and tears. Qasim would leave in the afternoon and find Ahmad and Umm Kamil waiting for him at the gate. The world was not the same anymore; inescapable worries had crept in. His instincts told him Muhammad Ibrahim, Ahmad’s father, posed a further danger for he did not like living apart from his son. His bulging eyes began to regard him coldly.

“I don’t like that man,” he said to his mother.

Her long brown face darkened. “How ungrateful you are! Didn’t he send you his son?” she said.

“But he wants him back.”

She laughed. “Do you want him to give up what is his for your sake?”

One day Ahmad was not waiting for him when he left the Qur’an school. Instead, he found his mother looking more grave than usual.

“Your friend is sick,” she said.

He found Ahmad in a deep sleep in his bed. His mother prepared vinegar compresses, muttering, “Dear boy, you’re scorching like a fire.”

She recited verses from the Qur’an nonstop. When Amr Effendi came home in the evening he decided to send Umm Kamil to notify Matariya and her husband. When the incense and incantations did not succeed in bringing the fever down, Amr Effendi fetched the neighborhood doctor, but he said he was only an eye doctor and recommended they send for Doctor Abd al-Latif who lived in Bab al-Sha‘riya.

“But he is married to the belly dancer Bamba Kashar!” Amr protested.

The doctor laughed. “Bamba Kashar doesn’t mean he can’t be a good doctor, Amr Effendi.”

The doctor married to the famous belly dancer arrived. Qasim could feel the tension in the air. He heard his mother say, “I don’t trust doctors. I recognize only one doctor — the Creator of heaven and earth.”

Days went by. Where was Ahmad? Qasim wondered. Where had his freshness and beauty gone?

One afternoon he returned from Qur’an school and met a new scene at home. His family sat in a strange silence. His mother and Ahmad’s grandmother were in Ahmad’s room and his brothers and sisters — Amer, Hamid, Sadriya, Samira, and Habiba — were in the living room. Matariya was sobbing and Muhammad Ibrahim was next to her, smoking his pipe despondently. His heart was infused with fear at the somber atmosphere. He realized that the enemy he had heard about on formal occasions in the past, that he had seen reigning over funeral processions heading toward al-Hussein, had somehow invaded his house and snatched away the person he loved most in the world. He screamed and cried until Umm Kamil carried him up to the top of the house. Through the summer room jalousie he saw Ahmad’s grandmother, with an embroidered bundle in her arms, board a carriage with her daughter and Amr Effendi. The carriage moved off, followed by a second carrying Amer, Hamid, and Qasim’s uncle, Surur Effendi — a funeral procession of a new kind. Was this the end of Ahmad? He refused to believe or accept it. He was convinced they would bring him back that day, sweet and rosy once more. But he still could not stop crying. In the evening everyone dispersed.

“That’s enough!” his father chastised.

“Where did you take him?” he asked expectantly.

“You’re not a child anymore,” said Amr. “You attend the Qur’an school and learn suras from the Qur’an by heart. Ahmad has died. Everyone dies according to God’s decree. It’s the will of God.”

“But why?” he protested.

“The will of God. Don’t you understand?”

“No, Papa.”

“Stop.… This is no way to behave before God. Ahmad will go straight to paradise, which is a wonderful destiny. Be careful not to misbehave.”

“I’m very sad, Papa!” he shouted.

“Recite the opening sura and your heart will be soothed.”

But his heart was not soothed. He wept whenever he thought of Ahmad and it was said he was even sadder than Ahmad’s mother. He did not recover from his grief until his world fell to pieces and a new creature no one had predicted was born.

Ahmad Ata al-Murakibi

A giant among men, tall and broad, the contours of his face might have been found on a statue. His blood coursed vigorously under his tan, and his thick mustache, outspread palm, and hirsute hands made him the image of a hero of popular legend. He would fill the whole seat of the carriage as it sauntered through Bayt al-Qadi Square and came to a halt in front of the old house when he visited in the halo of a great feudal lord. He would receive his nephew Amr Effendi — who was the same age — with a heartfelt embrace and greet Radia warmly, then set his presents down on the console, asking, “Where’s Qasim?” His voice was calm and soft, which was peculiar considering the colossal body it came from, and in his brown eyes shone a languid, friendly look furnished with kindness and peace, as though he were a huge mosque where glory and security unite. “Tell us, how are our children?” he would say, referring to Amr and Radia’s sons and daughters. He visited everyone in the family periodically, in particular the daughters, so as to reinforce their standing before their husbands. He heaped candy on Qasim and was saddened by Ahmad’s death, whom he had been very fond of, for he was such a handsome boy.

He would usually stay for dinner, on the condition that Radia serve one of the traditional Egyptian dishes for which she was famous alongside pre-prepared ta’miya and kebab side dishes, then spend the evening with Amr and his brother, Surur, at the Misri Club. The poor branch of the family was happy when rich relatives, like the Murakibis and the Dawuds, came to visit and reveled in the lasting effect it had in the quarter, although Radia would nevertheless remark to Amr, “None of them have roots. They all come from the soil,” then turn to Qasim and carry on provocatively, “One man vanquishes them all and that’s your grandfather, Shaykh Mu‘awiya.” Amr would smile and remain silent, preferring peace.

Yet Qasim never got over the magic of the Murakibi mansion on Khayrat Square. As big as Bayt al-Qadi Square and as tall as the Citadel, it had a garden like a zoo, countless rooms, and nothing could match its furniture; what wonderful antiques of all shapes and sizes, and bronze and plaster statues in the corners! The wives of Ahmad Bey and Mahmud Bey, Fawziya Hanem and Nazli Hanem, had amazing complexions and blue eyes. Here was a real-life world even more magical than the world of fairy tales and dreams. Qasim’s grandmother, Ni‘ma Ata al-Murakibi, was the sister of Ahmad Bey and Mahmud Bey, but she was poor and had nothing in the world but her two sons, Amr and Surur, and daughter, Rashwana. Nevertheless, the two wealthy brothers loved their sister and her children, especially Amr Effendi, who was marked by natural wisdom. Ahmad Bey strengthened his ties with Dawud’s family, the relatives of his sister Ni‘ma’s children, and other relatives through marriage — despite the mutual jealousy between the rich branches — and would invite them to the mansion on Khayrat Square. Abd al-Azim Pasha Dawud preferred Ahmad to his brother, Mahmud, as he was gentle-natured, straightforward, and modest, but when the Murakibi family was mentioned at Amr’s house he would nevertheless declare scornfully, “They’re even more ignorant than they are rich. Where do they come from? A poor pantofle seller in Salihiya!”

While Mahmud Ata would say of Dawud’s family, “Resounding titles but they’re mere hirelings at the end of the day!”

“We’re all children of Adam and Eve,” Ahmad would say in his usual pious way.

Amr, Surur, Mahmud, and Ahmad started school around the same time and made do with the primary school certificate. Amr and Surur entered the civil service because they were poor, and Mahmud plunged into life’s tribulations under his father’s wing, but Ahmad gravitated to calm and a life of luxury so was discounted from his father’s plans. He spent some time on the farm in Beni Suef on the margins of farming then returned alone, or rather with Fawziya Hanem, to his rooms on the third floor of the mansion in Cairo. He spent his time visiting family and receiving friends. His magnificent drawing room was made up to receive friends and relatives. They would sip tea, coffee, and cinnamon, play backgammon and chess, send for lunch and dinner, and stay up until dawn during Ramadan and on festivals. The phonograph was his companion when he was alone, the carriage his recreation, Shubra and al-Qubba Gardens his visiting spots, and al-Sayyida his place of worship on a Friday. Some nights he attended Sufi gatherings with his cousin Amr, who was a member of the Dimirdashiya order.

When his father, Ata al-Murakibi, died, his tranquil evergreen life suffered a violent blow that shook him thoroughly. He was suddenly faced with a huge responsibility he was not equipped to deal with: managing the land left to him — three hundred feddans, not to mention the additional hundred or so from his wife.

“You’ll learn everything,” said Mahmud Bey. “There are people to help you. But,” the man clenched his hulking hand into a fist and continued, “you’ll need to give up your amicable ways. You can’t treat peasants and tenants as you do friends and relatives.”

Ahmad thought for a long time, groping about the snare, then said, “You’re my older brother. I’ve known only kindness and loyalty from you. I wasn’t made for this.”

Thus, Mahmud took his father’s place. Fawziya Hanem was unimpressed with the decision. “You decided too quickly and didn’t consult anyone,” she said politely.

“Do you doubt my brother?” he asked, confused.

“He may be your brother but why grant him trusteeship?” she said in good faith.

“He’s my brother and dear friend and you’re his wife’s sister. Our family is a model of harmony and affection. I did what I thought was right,” he said.

His comfortable life continued and he received his share of the profits without inspecting it; everything was fine and he had no worries. Then the 1919 Revolution pounced and shook him profoundly. He was ignited by the leader’s charm and, at his brother’s suggestion, donated ten thousand Egyptian pounds to the cause. They followed their father’s old exhortation of maintaining a distance from politics and avoiding anything that might arouse the anger of legal, or any other, authorities: the tide is too strong to swim against. But when discord between Sa‘d and his opponent, Adli, began to emerge and the party split, the men deliberated about what to do; or, rather, Mahmud reflected and Ahmad went along with him.

“The time for sentimentality is over. It’s time to be smart,” said Mahmud.

“The whole nation is behind Sa‘d,” said Ahmad.

“We should go where our interests are best served.”

Ahmad paid attention.

“Don’t be taken in by the rhetoric,” Mahmud went on. “The English are the real power. Adli is close to them but he won’t bring security forever. The power with a permanent channel to the English is the Crown. Let’s pledge allegiance to the king.”

“You’re right as always, brother,” said Ahmad with resignation.

Their stance was soon known in Bayt al-Qadi, where Amr and Surur lived next door to one another.

“It’s inappropriate,” Amr muttered with characteristic calm.

“These rich relatives of ours, God has given them immeasurable wealth and unequaled depravity,” Surur scorned.

Amr had more than one reason to refrain from berating them; on the one hand his peaceable nature, on the other the marriages of his sons Hamid and Amer to Shakira and Iffat, the daughters of Mahmud Bey and Abd al-Azim Pasha. Nevertheless, he let his thoughts be known to his uncle Ahmad Bey when he had dinner with him at the mansion.

“God knows I’m with you in heart. It was Mahmud’s decision,” Ahmad said smiling.

“Every day the square below the house seethes with demonstrations. The shouting for the destruction of the traitors fills the air,” said Amr with regret.

“People with interests don’t like revolutions, cousin,” replied Ahmad.

It was Ahmad who bore the brunt of the criticism since he was with people day and night whereas Mahmud spent most of his time steeped in business on the farm. The announcement of allegiance during those difficult times earned the brothers the rank of pasha on the festival of the coronation, bringing both men immense pleasure. Ahmad gave a banquet and invited everyone — men and women alike — from Amr, Surur, and Dawud’s families. The mansion was decorated as if for a wedding. Ahmad immersed himself in his private life up to the top of his head and did not let the nation’s worries infiltrate his solitude and sully it. However, as time passed and his children grew up, he encountered trouble from unexpected quarters. His eldest son opposed his decision to place himself under the trusteeship of his brother and entered into a long and obstinate dispute with his mother to start with, then his father. He pestered his father until he promised to reclaim the property he had renounced entirely of his own accord. The spark ignited a fire, which blazed in every corner of the close-knit family. Ahmad seized the opportunity when Mahmud next visited Cairo on business. He raised the subject timidly and concluded the speech with an apology, “The children have grown up. They have their own ideas.” Mahmud mulled over what he had heard for a while, seething with anger. He was marked by unlimited power. At the mansion his family enjoyed more prestige than his kind, meek brother’s. Fawziya Hanem feared him and complied with his orders while she debated with her husband as an equal. Ahmad’s two sons were decorous and obedient in his presence but affectionate, exuberant, and casual in front of their father. The reins were slipping out of his hands.

“You’re weak! How can you allow your son to behave like this?” Mahmud demanded.

Ahmad was hurt but did not want to lose his children’s respect. “There’s no need to speak cruelly, brother,” he said.

“Do you doubt my good care?” Mahmud asked brutally.

“God forbid,” he said hurriedly. “But I’m entitled to take charge of my own affairs.”

“So you’re entitled to ruin yourself at your idiotic children’s instigation?”

Ahmad frowned. “I seek refuge in God.”

There followed a discussion with Ahmad’s eldest son, Adnan, which Mahmud Bey regarded as an unacceptable impertinence. The young man addressed his uncle with a bluntness the elder found offensive. The fire spread. The two brothers quarreled, each wife rallied to her husband’s side, ripping their sisterly loyalty apart, and the nieces and nephews traded the worst insults. The family bond was lacerated. Each branch withdrew to its own floor of the mansion, as though they did not know one another. The efforts Rashwana, Amr, and Surur expended to repair the rift failed and Amr’s son Hamid, who lived with his wife, Shakira, on Mahmud Bey’s floor, found himself torn and hard-pressed to maintain good relations with his great-uncle Ahmad’s family. Ahmad Bey moved to the farm in Beni Suef to assume management of his land in old age. He cultivated what was his to cultivate and leased what was his to lease. It brought him troubles he had not foreseen and losses he had not anticipated. Shortly before the Second World War, he developed hemiplegia and was taken to his bed in Cairo to wait for the end. He was the first of the second generation to fall; various illnesses would soon call the rest to join him in some way or other. Amr was still healthy and went to visit Mahmud Bey and said, “It’s time to forget the quarrel and its reasons and return to your brother.”

Mahmud was silent, pensive. “The matter will never be forgotten but I will do what is appropriate.…”

Ahmad’s family knew only that Mahmud Bey sought permission to enter the room. They gathered and stood for him courteously with tears in their eyes. His wife and children were with him. When the handshaking was over he announced, “The rift is over and forgotten. My heart beats as kin.”

He approached his brother, who was lying prostrate on his bed, silent and motionless. Fawziya leaned over his ear and whispered, “Your brother, Mahmud Bey, has come to reassure you.”

Mahmud leaned over him, kissed his cheek then stood up and said, “Forgiveness is God’s. Take heart.”

Ahmad lifted his heavy eyelids. It was clear he was trying to speak but could not get any words out, though no one doubted his flushed cheeks were quivering with goodwill. He passed away in the middle of that sad night.

Adham Hazim Surur

He graduated as an architect in 1978. He entered working life aged twenty-five in a Cairo awash with troubles, yet never encountered a single problem in his own life. Torrents of people and vehicles surged around him, the noise erupting like the rumble of a volcano, yet he lived happily at his parents’ villa in Dokki in peace and tranquillity amid the scent of roses and flowers. While his generation fumbled about, searching for identity, a home, marriage, and selfhood, he found an important position awaiting him at his father’s engineering office. He was good looking like his father and similarly shortsighted, almost blind, in his left eye. He cared for nothing in the world except his chosen field and knew only dreams of fortune and success. So mild was his faith he had almost none, without being an atheist.

“We lost his older brother. Let me arrange his marriage!” Samiha Hanem, his mother, said to his father, Hazim.

“This generation makes its own choices. Don’t provoke him,” the man replied gently, careful as always not to anger her. But she flared up as usual.

“There’s a rotten root in your family and I’m frightened it’ll lead him down the same path as his brother,” she shouted.

His father lit a cigarette. “Do what you think is right.”

But Adham was much quicker than she imagined and informed them one morning during the holidays, as they sat in Mena House Garden, that he had chosen his life partner. Samiha was alarmed. She stared into his face questioningly. The young man guessed her fears and smiled. “Karima. She is in her final year of law school. Her father is Muhammad Fawzi, a government legal advisor.”

His mother’s nerves appeared to relax. She put a spoon of ice cream between her wrinkled lips and began chewing.

“Inquiries will have to be made,” she mumbled.

Adham frowned.

“It’s just the formalities. I’m optimistic,” his father said obligingly.

Visits were exchanged and the choice met with approval, though some critical comments on Samiha’s part were inevitable.

“The mother is evidently not educated,” she said to her husband.

The man was amazed at her remark since she — Samiha — had not herself obtained the baccalaureate, but he said only, “It’s not important.”

Everything was agreed on. Hazim bought his son an apartment in al-Ma’adi for six thousand Egyptian pounds and Adham moved there with his bride at the end of the year.

Of his family tree Adham knew only his mother’s branch; his grandfather, Muhammad Salama, who set up the engineering office, and his maternal aunts and uncles. As for his father’s side, he knew vaguely that his grandfather, Surur Effendi Aziz, was employed in the railways, that his great uncle, Amr Effendi, worked at the ministry of education, and that he had paternal aunts with children, but he never saw any of them. He also knew his family came from al-Hussein, a quarter he associated with poverty and backwardness, but there was no reason to remember it and he only ever passed through in a car. He often encountered members of his family in squares and public places without him recognizing them or them recognizing him. His father followed his movements with pleasure, confident that when he retired one day in the not too distant future the office would be left in capable hands. He once said to him with respect to the corruption that was rife, “There is plenty of opportunity out there. You have knowledge, intelligence, and ambition. Don’t digress. Don’t scorn advice. If you mock values then at least strive for a good reputation and beware of jail.”

Amana Muhammad Ibrahim

She had a radiant complexion, delicate features, soft hair, and was the image of her mother, Matariya, but for two front teeth that stuck out a little. She was Matariya’s last child, born a few months before Ahmad’s death. Her uncle Qasim was fond of her, but dared not claim her as he had her deceased brother; he loved her from a distance until his personal tragedy wrenched him away from worldly concerns altogether. Her paternal grandmother died when she was seven and she mourned her more than was warranted for someone of her age. She entered primary school without opposition thanks to the times and, likewise, went on to secondary school. Matariya was only interested in marriage but said to her husband, “Like my sister Samira’s daughters, everyone wants an education these days.” Muhammad Ibrahim accepted this without discussion. He had been promoted to a senior teaching post by staying at the Umm Ghulam School through the good offices of Abd al-Azim Pasha Dawud.

As it happened, Amana displayed a promising propensity for learning and her talent for mathematics was clear. University seemed an easily attainable dream. She passed the baccalaureate, but in the summer holiday that followed, her father developed a galloping illness and he soon died, while only in his fifties. The family inherited the house, his pension, and the rent from the shop below the house. The Second World War was by then over and from the second generation Amr, Surur, and Mahmud Ata had passed away. Thus, Matariya felt she was facing life alone. During this period, Abd al-Rahman Effendi Amin, an employee at Dar al-Kutub, requested Amana’s hand. He was fifteen years older than her and had a good reputation. Amana liked him but wanted to finish her education first.

“Our circumstances mean marriage comes first,” Matariya said with sympathy. She consulted her mother, Radia, who said, “A suitable man is a thousand times more important than university.” She looked at Amana admiringly. “Why would a girl of your beauty be interested in education?”

Her uncle, Shaykh Qasim, said to her, “I saw you in a dream dancing in the district of Gamaliya!”

Matariya asked her mother what the dream meant and she said without hesitation, “The district represents peace and security, the marital home. …”

Matariya provided Amana’s dowry, the value of her and her paternal grandmother’s jewelry, and what little was left of her late husband’s savings. Amana was wedded to her groom on Azhar Street.

It was evident that love sheltered the new couple in its wing, but from the beginning harmony between husband and wife required stubborn efforts. Abd al-Rahman Amin believed in the man’s authority, while Amana was extremely sensitive, fussing over an ant’s nip like it was a snakebite. She was quick to burst into tears and shut herself away or head off to Watawit from Azhar Street. Matariya would escort her back and try and resolve the mess, then end up embroiled in the quarrel herself. Her older sister Sadriya said to her, “Your daughter’s husband is no worse than mine but no one gets to know what goes on between us. Don’t interfere in their private affairs and don’t side with Amana in every disagreement.”

Radia learned of the newfound bickering and sought refuge in incantations, spells, and tomb visits. The dissension constantly threatened to escalate until the specter of divorce raised its ugly face like a bat. The extent of the problem was compounded by the fact that the moment Amana gave birth to her first child, Muhammad, and was overwhelmed with motherhood, the beautiful wife all but disappeared. After him, she gave birth to Amr, Surur, and Hadiya and the specter of divorce withdrew, although the bickering continued and constant stress left its mark on her face.

The children started school with the first generation of the July Revolution. They departed the gloomy atmosphere of the house and hovered in skies of fortune and splendor before drowning in the sea of confusion that swallowed its victims on June 5, 1967. They began their working lives after the demise of the first leader, and during the wave of victory and the infitah policy they were awarded contracts to work in other Arab countries. Even Hadiya did not stay behind. As for Matariya, she died after suffering many disappointments: the premature deaths of her youngest son and husband, the aberrations of Shazli, and Amana’s bad luck. Abd al-Rahman Amin eventually succumbed to old age. Amana savored her children’s success, though old age and illness overtook her too before her time. She saw her respected uncles and aunts and the rest of her relatives pass away. She read the book of sorrows as it turned its pages one after the other and would listen to the prophecies sent down to Shaykh Qasim and try to apply the verdicts to her destiny.

Amir Surur Aziz

He was born and grew up in Bayt al-Qadi. Surur Effendi’s house was next door to his brother, Amr Effendi’s, and Amir was around the same age as his cousin Qasim. He played and roamed about with his cousin but was kept away from him after his tragedy. Unlike his brothers, he was strong bodied, inclined to be overweight, and loved fun. In terms of chivalry and piety, he most resembled his uncle Amr. He knew the 1919 Revolution as a legend of demonstrations, battles, and anecdotes and grew up a faithful and patriotic Sa‘dist. He tried to mimic his brother Labib‘s accomplishment and industry and made successful progress, though he never reached his brother’s level. His piety and spirit of decorum and tradition were a detriment to relations with his sister, Gamila, who was four years his senior, for he objected to what he saw as casual behavior unworthy of the family name and honorable religion. No one in his family shared his views. They became increasingly annoyed with him until his father said, “You’re too zealous. Leave the matter to me.”

In secondary school he began participating in the party struggle that broke out after Sa‘d Zaghloul’s death. He joined in demonstrations protesting Muhammad Mahmud’s dictatorship and spent two weeks in hospital after he was struck by a club. He had three relatives in the police with sensitive positions at the ministry of the interior; Hamid Amr, his cousin, and Hasan Mahmud Ata and Halim Abd al-Azim Dawud, his second cousins. They consulted on the matter and the one closest to him was assigned the task of cautioning him and setting him on the right path. Hamid delivered the speech in the presence of his uncle Surur and father, Amr.

“Your name is at the top of the blacklist at the Interior,” he said to his cousin.

“I’m honored,” Amir laughed, as he did often.

His cousin pointed to the scar on his temple and said, “You can’t always rely on being so lucky.”

“They won’t hesitate to discharge you from college,” said his father.

“I’m a Wafdist like you, but must advise you,” said Hamid.

The young man did not conceal his disdain for Ata and Dawud’s families. He sensed his father was not overly fond of them and scoffed at their roots at every opportunity. He began to light the political sky at the center of the young Wafdists and was the one they would proffer to the Wafd leaders. His ambitions for the nation reached for distant horizons. His brother Labib, who was a public attorney at the time, tried to put the brakes on his exuberance but he said, “I’ve discovered my path and won’t ever turn back.”

“What if you lose your job? You know we’re poor,” he inquired with natural calm.

“Then I’ll work for the press,” he replied confidently.

But he did not lose his job or work for the press or continue his political struggle. At the beginning of Ismail Sidqi’s time, during the flood of demonstrations protesting against the abrogation of the 1923 Constitution, he was shot dead in Muhammad Ali Street. The security forces took charge of his burial, along with many others, so as to prevent their funeral processions from paving the way for further demonstrations; only his father, uncle, and brothers were permitted to attend. His premature death shook Surur and Amr’s families profoundly. They recalled what Shaykh Qasim had said to him at the end of one visit to his uncle’s house: “You will raise the red flag.” They interpreted the words as a reference to the blood spilled the day he was martyred.